


The Romance of the White Knight

by ThamesNymph



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Elizabethan vampire AU that no one asked for, F/M, Geralt fights some monsters but mostly vainly struggles against his own emotions, Jaskier is a Renaissance bi icon because of course he is, Jaskier is a court poet, M/M, Mutual Pining, and best friends with Christopher Marlowe, and his greatest rival is Edmund Spenser, but he isn't totally human, no one's exactly sure what Geralt is, sort of slow burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:20:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 36,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27177770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThamesNymph/pseuds/ThamesNymph
Summary: Julian Panhallick is an Elizabethan court poet without a care in the world besides the cuckolded husbands of court ladies who are out for his blood and his rivalry with Edmund Spenser over who will compose the longest, most overdramatic paean to the Virgin Queen. That is, until he discovers a coven of vampires lurking within the court, who plan to take over England from the top by turning the major political players into vampires. Julian is forced to set out for mainland Europe to find the only man who can help; the mysterious, almost-mythical knight, Geralt of Rivia.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 32
Kudos: 62





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is inspired by the fact that Jaskier's clothes are all inexplicably early modern instead of medieval in the show. I am aware that his clothes are far more early Stuart than Elizabethan, but I know more about the late Elizabethan era, so I'm taking liberties. This is supposed to take place in the early 1590s. I apologise for any historical inaccuracies in advance, I just went with what I know about English history at the time and might have gotten some places or events slightly off. Shakespeare WILL turn up eventually, I promise. This is pretty shamelessly self-indulgent; I'm a little bit too into late medieval-early modern history right now and am about to make it everyone else's problem.

It was a night like many another at the court, which meant that couples were strolling in the garden, old noblemen were gathering in select groups deep within secret, dimly-let chambers to discuss matters of state, young gallants were drinking and swearing and perhaps challenging one another to duels, ladies were settling in gracious groups with their embroidery or books of poetry or devotion, and Julian Panhallick was hiding from an enraged husband. Namely, he was hiding from Lord Urswick, whose lovely wife Catherine had been the partner of Julian's bed for the past three months. Julian was currently lurking breathlessly in the back of a large press, half-stifled by gowns and prodded by starched collars. The room had been empty when he had dashed into it, but he now heard, to his horror, someone entering. 

'Come in here, my lady,' someone said, and Julian heard a rustle of cloth as a woman swept into the room. He almost gasped with relief. Not Lord Urswick. Several more people seemed to enter now, and then the door was closed.

'So,' said a hard, decided, female voice, 'Howard, what do you have to tell us?' Vaguely, Julian recognised the voice as that of Lady Velden, the Duchess of Argyll. He had no interest in the conversation, and was merely grateful to have a safe hiding place for a while. But the next word intrigued him.

'Madam,' came the voice of John Howard, the Viscount Berwick, 'I believe the young Eliza Marchforde could be a valuable tool for us. She is foolish and easily led, and she is connected to the very best circles through her uncle.'

Julian felt a vague alarm. This sounded like some sort of plot. Was this a Catholic conspiracy against the Queen? This talk of tools and connections sounded as if these people (whoever they were) sought to gain a powerful foothold within the court.

'Very well, if you think her valuable, she will be as good a first recruit to our ranks as any. How close would having her in our power get us to the Queen?'

'I am not sure, Madam, but - ' At this point, Howard broke off at a knock at the door.

'Enter!' Lady Velden called.

Julian heard the door open, and a timid, roughly-accented voiced of a young servant girl said, 'Pray excuse me, Madam, I was asked by Sir John to bring wine.'

'Ah, yes, come here,' Lady Velden said, 'shut the door behind you, child.' Julian heard the door shut. 'Closer, my dear,' Lady Velden said.

Then suddenly there was a swiftly-silenced inarticulate half-scream from the servant girl and some sound significantly more horrible that Julian couldn't identify, but that made him think of flesh being torn and nearly turned him sick. There was some confused scuffling in the room and curiosity got the better of Julian. Pushing through the heavy texture of the clothes in the press, he risked pushing the door open a sliver and peering out. He almost fell out of the press in numbed terror.

The assembled gentry, of whom there were five, including Lady Velden and Viscount Berwick, were bent over the clearly-lifeless body of the girl, and they were licking and sucking at the blood that flowed from her torn veins. Their faces were twisted and altered, hardly resembling human faces at all, their teeth sharp and greedy, mouths open in animal gasps over their prey, and their hands had become clawed and talon-like.

* * *  
'Kit, I am telling you, they had _fangs_. Real, bloody, _literally_ bloody fangs, like... ravening tigers!'

'Where've you seen ravening tigers, Jules? Listen, you should tell Bill this. He was just telling me he wants to write a play with witches in it, but can't figure out how to work them in. I told him he should just stick to history, it's what he does best. Hey! Boy! More drinks over here, the great Julian Panhallick is feeling most unwell and the only cure is ale!'

Christopher Marlowe, Julian's best friend, was lounging in a chair in The Swan inn, surveying him with a fond grin. Kit was wearing a slashed doublet of rich brown brocade, artfully embellished with sunshine-yellow and even some real gold thread, echoing his shining fair hair, which looked like it ought to belong to a youth of eighteen, though Kit was far past that age, several years older than Julian. Kit was beguilingly beautiful, and he had once or twice taken Julian to bed in the first few months of their acquaintance, having a predilection for all things young and pretty. Both he and Julian had soon moved on to new flesh, and they remained now the best of friends.

'What is this, Jules, a new direction for your epic? Trying to invent some monsters to rival Spenser's? Who's going to be the knight riding in to slay them? What are they supposed to represent in this convoluted allegory of yours?'

'Kit, I'm serious, I _saw_ them! At first I thought it was some sort of Catholic conspiracy - '

'Well, if it is, I might join.'

'For heaven's sake! That sort of talk is going to get you into some serious trouble one of these days, Kit! And no, it's not a Catholic conspiracy, it's some sort of monster conspiracy to eat the Queen or something.'

'Sounds like a case for that old charlatan, Dee,' Kit remarked, sipping his ale.

'Dee! That's it! He's the one who can advise me!'

'Jules, are you mad? You can't believe a word that raving old fool says!'

'Yes, well, until last night I didn't believe that high-placed courtiers could sprout fangs and claws and eat people!'

* * *

Dust. There was more dust in Doctor Dee's laboratory than Julian had ever seen in one place in his life. It was on the enormous masses of books, on the tables laden with a bewildering miscellany of delicate and obscure objects, rendering glass opaque, obscuring the mirrors, even hovering in the very air. Doctor Dee himself, a tall but wizened old man with straggling white hair and mournful eyes, seemed to exhale dust from his skin as he approached. Julian tried very hard not to sneeze and failed miserably.

'Master Panhallick,' Doctor Dee greeted Julian, 'what a pleasure it is to meet you at last. I have seen you so many times, but I believe we have never spoken. And I have, of course, read your works. You were an Oxonian, I think?'

'Yes,' was all that Julian managed, trying to stop sneezing.

'Well, I myself was a Cantabrigian,' Dee went on cheerfully, 'but I daresay we shall have no quarrels on that account. Now, what an unusual name it is, Julian.'

'My mother was Spanish, my lord,' Julian explained. 'Forgive me if I seem precipitate Doctor, but I have last night been witness to a matter which has greatly distressed me. To me it seems to have been of an almost supernatural character.'

'Supernatural character?' Doctor Dee repeated, showing a remarkable degree of alertness and interest for someone who looked far on his way to the grave. 'Tell me all.'

Julian told him what he had seen the previous night, omitting the names of the nobles, in case he should be suspected of trying to cast aspersions in playing some sort of political game. As it was, he knew that telling Dee of what he had seen was risky and could render him seriously suspect.

'Christ preserve us,' breathed Doctor Dee when Julian had finished. He sank into a chair and looked blankly into vacant space.

'Do you believe me insane?' Julian asked.

'I only wish I could,' Dee said. 'Unfortunately, what you have told me has the undoubted ring of truth. By certain signs and omens, I have long been expecting something of this kind to occur. I fear we are all of us in very great danger, not least our gracious sovereign, may God bless her and protect her.'

'But who were they?'

'They were the Undead, the Greeks call them _vourdoulakas_. Some call them vampires. They feed on the blood of the living and seek to make those they choose part of their unholy fellowship. I believe that there is in our court a coven of these creatures, which will make an attempt to transform the most powerful men of this land to their own likeness. From what you have heard, the Queen's Majesty herself, I fear, is their prize.'

'But - but can anything be done?' Julian stammered. 'Can they be stopped?'

'There must be some means, but alas, I do not know of them,' Dee said. 'Let me think, let me think...'

There was silence for a several minutes, as Dee sat, clutching his head and staring with fixed eyes into space.

'You must get help,' Dee said at last, 'and there is only one person I can think of who might have the knowledge of how to defeat this terrible foe. First, tell me the names of those you saw last night. Do not worry, I will not betray your trust. But I will have them watched and watch them myself to be sure, as far as I can, that the Queen is protected.'

Julian named Lady Velden and John Howard, but the rest he had to confess he had not been able to recognise. 

'Very well,' Dee continued. 'Now, you must go to the continent.' 

'What!' Julian exclaimed. 'I? But why me?'

'Because we must tell as few people as possible of what we know. Anyone may turn out to be our enemy and betray us. Make no mistake, Master Panhallick, this is a battle for more than life and death, this is a battle for the immortal souls of all who live in this country. You must find the only person who can aid us.'

'And who is that?'

'A knight, Geralt of Rivia. He is probably to be found in the German lands, or perhaps further east, in the lands of the Slavs.'

'But how am I to find one man in such a vast territory?'

'Oh, but he is not a man. And if you ask, people will tell you where to find him. You have some German, I am sure?'

'Yes, but, if he is not a man, then what is he? You said he was a knight? And where is Rivia anyways? I have never heard of it.'

'Rivia was a small German principality that was swallowed up by Bohemia two hundred years ago. In any case, he is not actually from there. He was born in England, over four hundred years ago, or so the tales of him say.'

'Four hundred - ' Julian exclaimed, breaking off in confusion.

'Yes, he is what people call fey, the offspring of a lady of the faerie and a human knight. For the past four centuries, he has been roving the world, destroying the unholy creatures of the devil. He must be a very holy man. He is the only one who may be able to aid us. You must go to Europe and bring him back.'

'I - I will try my best,' Julian said, 'but I'm really not much good at finding people or exploring unknown lands or possibly fighting monsters. This sounds like more of a job for Walter Raleigh.'

'You know, in your story, there was one part which puzzled me. How, Master Panhallick, did you come to be in that clothes press in the first place?'

'Ah, well, that is a... a long story,' Julian stammered. 'And perhaps I might be better off away from the court for a while.'

And so, within only a few hours, Julian, with several chests stuffed with expensive clothes, a large supply of paper, quills and ink, soaps and bath oils, brushes and gloves and handkerchiefs, a lute to help him compose his verses and a very well-filled purse, was in a carriage on the road to Dover and the first ship he could find for Calais and the continent, to find the mysterious Geralt of Rivia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made up the names of the vampire nobles, but Doctor John Dee was a real person, he was the court astrologer/alchemist/political advisor/possibly spy, with a huge library. Edmund Spenser was a poet who wrote a fuck-off huge epic poem _The Faerie Queene_ , which is an elaborate allegory about how great Elizabeth I is. Kit Marlowe loved scandalizing people and was very gay.


	2. Chapter 2

Julian Panhallick landed in Calais worn out with seasickness and extremely cross. He had not been misleading Doctor Dee when he told him that he was the wrong man for the job. Julian's travelling was mostly confined to the journey between London and his father's West Country estate, and even this he endured with bad grace and undertook as rarely as possible. He took a carriage from Calais and set out on the road east towards the German principalities of the Holy Roman Empire. It was the best he could do, given how phenomenally vague Doctor Dee's directions had been. The discomforts of this particular journey were torture to the pampered creature of the court. The carriage was cold and uncomfortable and being stuffed into it, without movement, for hours was maddening. The roads were abysmal and Julian was shaken and rattled about until he was sure all his limbs were bruised. His beautiful clothes got creased and dusty. There was no one to admire his beautiful clothes. There was no one to talk to. He couldn't even work on his verses, because he rhythm of the horses' hooves and the jolting of the carriage disrupted any hope of finding the right metre. At least he stopped every night in a city or town and could sleep in a warm bed and have a decent bath, but he couldn't do justice to the food because he lurching of the carriage made him ill. And on top of it all, as he travelled through France, he could get no word at all of the mysterious knight that he sought. 

He started to hear some vague rumours about Geralt of Rivia once he entered the territory of the Holy Roman Empire, and he did not like what he heard. People spoke of him with fear and superstition. He seemed to be only marginally preferred over the monsters he was said to be able to defeat. All that Julian heard about him was said in hushed voices and often accompanied by invocations to the Virgin Mary for protection and signs of the cross.

As if this wasn't bad enough, disaster struck in Prum, a town that Julian reached three days after crossing the border with France. He awoke in the morning to find that his carriage, with all of his belongings, had been stolen in the night. He never discovered whether his coachman and the one servant he had brought had been bribed or overpowered by bandits. All Julian was left with was one suit (besides the one he wore), his lute, which he had taken to his room in the vain hope of being able to compose something, and a few coins that he happened to have about him.

Turning back or going on both seemed equally pointless options. He was too far from Calais to make going back anything but a waste of time, and he had come too far to abandon his errand. Yet how was he supposed to find some fairy (or half-fairy or whatever) knight in the middle of a strange country with no means of transport and very little money? Sitting on the step of the inn where he had spent the night, his head in his hands in despair, Julian finally concluded that he must go on. Finding this Geralt of Rivia seemed to be the only chance of saving England from becoming a vampire empire, so he might as well give it his best try, rather than trail back across all of France with nothing to show for it.

So that was how Julian became a travelling minstrel. Since he had almost no money, he came up with the brilliant idea of singing for his supper in order to finance his quest. He wasn't very good at it to begin with, since his German was shoddy, but he quickly discovered that the demand for songs in French was much greater, even if (or perhaps because) most people couldn't understand a word. French was seen as a courtly, sophisticated language, and Julian spoke very good French. His performances were, for the most part, enthusiastically received. He even gained a new name. Some Polish merchants heard him singing in a tavern one night and nicknamed him 'Jaskier', which apparently meant 'buttercup'. He supposed they thought he had a sunny disposition, but they may also have been referring to his lemon-yellow doublet and breeches. Julian liked this new name, and after all, he was on a quest, and on a quest, a _nomme de guerre_ was only appropriate, so he took Jaskier for his.

He was having... perhaps not what his usual idea of a good time was, but he was surprised to find that he was enjoying himself. Travelling under a different name, walking the roads and seeing the somewhat imposing but strangely beautiful landscapes that had looked dull and monotonous from his carriage window, in the clean air full of the smells of living things, singing in welcoming inns in the evenings, chatting in his bad German to the locals, drinking the superb beer that the country had to offer, and as often as not finishing up the night in bed with a pretty young girl who saw him as an irresistible novelty (or sometimes in the bed of a strong, handsome man from the town, a blacksmith or a farm labourer)... well, there were worse ways to spend one's time.

Naturally, he suffered from the reduced amount of clothes and lack of scented soaps and multiple hair brushes, but there were two very good things about Julian's (or Jaskier's) new mode of travel to outweigh these considerations. The first was that he was no longer getting jolted in the carriage and forced to endure hours of motionless gazing out onto identical bleak landscapes. The second was that it was much easier to obtain information about Geralt of Rivia. Staying at higher-class inns, Julian had had little access to local gossip, but now, staying at the cheapest available lodgings, Jaskier picked up much that he would otherwise have missed.

He discovered that whatever Doctor Dee meant by saying Geralt was 'fey', it was not Jaskier's idea of 'fey'. Apparently, he was a fearsome warrior, imposing in stature, with silver hair and golden eyes. All the stories (and there were many) agreed on the hair and the eyes, and also that he carried two swords; one of steel and one of silver for destroying unclean creatures that could not stand the touch of silver. Dee had also given Jaskier the impression that Geralt was a sort of holy warrior, going about destroying the works of the devil to aid mankind. But Jaskier now found that Geralt would do nothing without a hefty payment. Money somehow had not entered into Jaskier's calculations, and he wondered if he would be able to get Geralt to come all the way to England with him on trust, provided that he ever found the man (or creature or whatever he was). There were many other tales about him; that he could use magic, that he lived in unholy congress with a sorceress named Yennefer of Vengerberg, that he rode a dragon rather than a horse, or perhaps it was a griffin...

Though Jaskier's performances were the most part much praised and sought-after, there were some towns where he met with a less-than-friendly reception. This happened in a town called Neuburg. The clientele of the tavern where he was performing showed a marked dislike to French songs, and shouted Jaskier down with inventive abuse of the French and the French language and demanded good, decent German drinking songs, of which Jaskier knew a grand total of zero. He had been singing a lovely song about sylphs, which he had written himself and was feeling rather proud of. He therefore felt very hurt at the reception his composition had met with and decided to move on to another tavern, encouraged especially by several energetically-flung vegetables and bread crusts. He ducked, cursing, and prepared to evacuate the establishment as unobtrusively as possible, when he caught sight of a tall, dark man in a dim corner who payed not the slightest attention to the proceedings.

The corner might be dark, but Jaskier could see even from this distance that the man had an extraordinary, strong and clear-cut profile, fascinatingly fair hair, and exuded an air of brooding power. Now, Jaskier was only human, and could hardly resist the attraction of a tall, dark stranger lurking mysteriously alone, especially not when he had a face _like that_ and that powerful, aggressive physical presence. He would willingly crawl into this man's bed, and if the man was not interested, well, he had the look of _knowing things_ , and might well be able to give Jaskier some information about the elusive object of his quest.

Jaskier threaded his way between the tables towards him. The man didn't look at him.

'Love the way you just sit in the corner and brood,' Jaskier commented, leaning against a pillar nonchalantly.

'I'm here to drink alone,' the man growled, good God, _actually_ growled, in a voice unlike any Jaskier had ever heard. It was so deep and resonant that it seemed to vibrate in Jaskier's ribs with an almost breathtaking intimacy and crawl up and down his spine. Jaskier decided immediately that he would do anything to hear that voice again. Unable to stop himself, he imagined that voice crooning filth into his ear in a darkened bedroom. Jaskier realised that he needed to sit down immediately and attempt to control his imagination.

'Good, yeah, good,' he said, sitting down opposite the stranger. 'No one else hesitated to comment on the quality of my performance, except for you. Come on, you must have _some_ review for me. Three words or less.'

The man seemed to consider this. 'They don't exist,' he said.

'Whaaaaat don't exist?' Jaskier asked, confused and letting his syllables drag.

'The creatures in your song.'

Ah, so the man knew French. This was excellent news, since Jaskier's German was probably not sufficient for adroit, let alone subtle, flirting. Even though Jaskier's interest in being subtle had flown out of the window the second he heard that voice.

'And how would you know?' he prompted.

The man didn't answer, but merely raised his head, which he had kept slightly lowered, and looked Jaskier straight in the face. Jaskier's breath caught in his throat. The man's eyes were golden, really and unmistakably golden, two molten rings of intense brightness. And the hair... in the semi-darkness, Jaskier had merely thought it was unusually fair, perhaps bleached by the sun, but now he realised that it was not unusually, but unnaturally light, in fact, it was silvery-white.

'I know who you are!' Jaskier exclaimed, switching to English. 'You're Geralt of Rivia!'

The man glared at him, then started to get up.

'No, wait,' Jaskier said, seizing his wrist. 'I've come a very long way to find you!'

Geralt looked down at Jaskier's hand on his wrist, clearly indicating that it had gotten there by some terrible error of judgement which Jaskier would do well to rectify immediately, but Jaskier was not deterred.

'Please,' he went on, 'I need your help.'

Geralt sat down again.

'You have a job for me?' he asked. In English, his voice sounded even more delicious (how was that even possible?), sounded somehow _right_ , probably since it was his native tongue. He had a slight hint of some archaic accent, which Jaskier supposed would make sense, if he had been born so long ago, and a slight hesitation in speaking, as though uncertain of words he had not used in a long time.

'Yes,' Jaskier said, 'Jaskier is the name I am currently travelling under, my real name is Julian Panhallick, the author of _Phoebe, Queen of the Summer Skies_ , a great poem in praise of our gracious sovereign, Queen Elizabeth. Perhaps you've read it?'

Geralt just looked at him, somehow managing to convey with crystal clarity the words 'no i have not and will not to save my life' without actually changing his expression one bit.

'No? Well, it is not yet completed, it has nine books published already, but I am well advanced in composing the tenth, which will contain the most glorious allegory of -'

Geralt cut him off. 'Are you planning on getting to the point this year?'

'Ah, yes, sorry. Well, the English court, and England itself, is in terrible danger.' And he told Geralt what he had seen and the threat that was looming over the kingdom. He tried to be coherent as possible, but this was difficult, since his attention kept being distracted by Geralt's really offensively handsome face. No one that surly had the right to look that good, Jaskier decided, even as he admired the strongly marked features, the heavy brows and large eyes and wondered what that rather grim mouth would look like when softened by a smile. Or what it would be like to kiss it... Jaskier forced himself to focus on his narrative.

Geralt listened to him impassively.

'No,' he said, when Jaskier finished.

'What?'

'No, I won't do it.'

'But I am sure you will be amply rewarded. You can have any treasure you ask for!' Jaskier promised, choosing not to mention the fact that no payment had been discussed.

'I'm not going back to England. I have my reasons,' Geralt said, forestalling any objections and rising to leave, picking up his twin swords and swinging them over his shoulder with a movement that clearly indicated long habit. 

His tone was supremely final, and Jaskier could see at once that he would not listen to any further argument. That wasn't going to stop Jaskier though. He spent a minute sitting looking after Geralt, who _was_ extremely physically impressive; broad shoulders, a sense of fantastic muscular strength in his stance and movements, yet a fluid grace and ease as well... Then Jaskier leapt up and ran after him. He was _not_ going to let him just leave without putting up a damn good fight. Not a physical fight, obviously. He would far rather do other things physically with this man.

'Wait,' he called, hurrying up to Geralt. 'Where are you going?' he demanded, as Geralt untied his horse (oh, so it was a horse, an ordinary dark bay one, not a griffin) from where he left if outside the tavern.

'I have a contract,' Geralt said shortly, without turning around, and started walking away.

'Oh, to destroy a monster? What sort of monster?' Jaskier asked, setting off after him.

Geralt didn't answer, merely kept walking down the road that led out of town. Undeterred, Jaskier followed. He was determined to obtain Geralt's help.

'What sort of monster, Geralt?' he repeated.

'Are you just going to keep following me?' Geralt asked.

'Yes. You're not getting rid of me until you promise to help. I'm not going to let England be destroyed just because you're in a bad mood. Or are you always like this?'

Geralt didn't answer. Jaskier was getting the definite impression that conversations with this man were going to be somewhat one-sided. A pity, as he had such a truly fantastic voice.

They walked out of town, people staring after them on the street and from doorways, often making the sign of the cross as the sight of Geralt and pretending to avert their eyes, while in reality covertly gazing with eagerness at his unusual appearance.

'Why are those people staring like that?' Jaskier asked. 

Geralt, predictably, didn't answer. They walked on, past the last of the cottages and further on down the now-deserted road. Soon they were out of sight of the town, and Jaskier's repeated attempts at conversation all proved unavailing. He lapsed into a quashed silence. Luckily, Geralt wasn't walking very fast, so Jaskier could at least keep up.

'Geralt, will you at least tell me where we're going?' he asked, breaking a silence of several minutes. They were now at least three miles outside the town.

Geralt stopped and turned around.

'Come here,' he said, beckoning Jaskier over. 

Cheerfully, he interpreted this as a good sign. At least they were talking. He came up to Geralt, who, without any warning, punched him under the ribs, knocking all the breath out of him before he even knew what was happening. Then Geralt seized his arm, twisted is behind his back and forced him down to the ground, pushing one knee down hard on his back. Geralt accomplished all of this with unbelievable speed, and seemingly without the slightest effort, as if Jaskier was a rag doll.

' _We're_ not going anywhere,' Geralt said, his voice low and menacing. 'Stop following me. I told you once already, I'm not going to England. I don't like repeating myself.'

He let go of Jaskier's arm and stood up, leaving him gasping and trying to struggle up. Even as he did so, he heard Geralt mounting the horse and the increasingly rapid thump of its hooves on the road as it departed at what must have been a gallop. By the time Jaskier struggled to his feet, the horse and its rider were far away down the road.

'Well... fine!' Jaskier panted, vainly melodramatic. 'That's just wonderful! Thanks ever so! Just fucking leave us all to get turned into vampires, why don't you? You absolute... pile of shit!'

He then sat down by the side of the road (his clothes were already filthy from being pushed into the dirt, so he was indifferent to their condition) and thought of more creative insults to shout after Geralt. Then he was conscious of a dull, empty sense of despair. He had come all this way, he had actually succeeded in finding the man he was looking for, only to be thwarted by that man's horrid temper. He had failed, and now had to make his way back to England somehow. He supposed he had better start by going back to Neuburg.

Jaskier's sense of direction had never been very good, and his disappointment and dejection made him particularly inattentive, so when he came to a fork in the road, he took the wrong turning. This might also have been because when he had come to this spot before, he had been more interested in watching Geralt than their way. It took Jaskier several miles to discover his mistake. By this time, the sun was close to setting, and he was beginning to seriously consider the prospect of not making it to the town by night.

Cursing his inattentiveness and his luck, Jaskier turned to go back to the crossroads, and after only a few steps was startled by the sight of _something_ emerging onto the road from a hedge. It wasn't very large, something like a fair-sized dog, but its movements were not that of any animal Jaskier had ever encountered before. He stopped, and the thing, whatever it was, came closer. As it did so, Jaskier saw with horror that it appeared to be an extraordinarily large rooster, but with wings like a gigantic bat, and murderous-looking beak and claws.

Jaskier stood frozen with terror. At least, he thought at first that it was terror. But suddenly he realised that he physically could not move. The beast had vicious, glowing yellowish-green eyes fixed on him, and he could not look away, or indeed move a muscle. He struggled to make some movement, but it was as if he had become stone. The beast came closer and closer, and Jaskier knew that it was about to leap at him. He looked at the horrible, cruel claws and the gaping beak and, bizarrely, the thought that flashed through his head was, 'Damn, now that cunt Edmund Spenser is going to get all the glory with his _Faerie Queene_!' He just had time to feel that this was probably a very stupid last thought.


	3. Chapter 3

But the expected attack never came. Just as Jaskier was braced for the impact of the monster leaping on him and tearing into his flesh, it suddenly toppled into the road in front of him, a sword through its throat. The eye contact that had paralysed him broken, Jaskier staggered in confusion. He had not been able to see anything beyond those horrible green-tinged eyes, and it came as a shock to him that the world still existed.

'Close your eyes!' a voice shouted, a familiar voice.

Jaskier obeyed simply because he would have obeyed anything at that moment, he was so bemused. He heard, away to his left, the most horrible screeching and cawing, and the sounds of a vicious struggle, frantic scuffling, the whirr of a sword cutting through the air. Curiosity got the better of him, and Jaskier opened his eyes to look.

A few yards away from him, Geralt was engaged in a fierce battle with the creature that had been about to attack Jaskier, which seemed in no way harmed by having had a sword run through it. As Jaskier watched, Geralt stabbed it at least five more times, but this seemed to have no effect at all. Geralt was keeping it at bay, but was clearly hampered by the fact that he kept his eyes averted, avoiding looking at the creature directly. The thing itself was shockingly aggressive considering its rather small size, and kept repeatedly charging at Geralt with its horrible claws and beak. Jaskier immediately started thinking how he could help or distract the creature, but in his panicked state, could think of nothing.

'Jaskier!' Geralt shouted, 'Do you have a mirror?'

'A what?' Jaskier asked, in blank confusion.

'A mirror, anything that will produce a reflection!'

'Yes, I think so...'

'Well, get it!'

Jaskier had felt it impossible to travel without a mirror, so had bought a new one after his things had been stolen. He now fumbled through his things, hoping that it hadn't gotten smashed. He didn't understand what Geralt wanted the mirror for, but his voice was so commanding and powerful that Jaskier didn't even stop to question. He produced the mirror (thankfully unbroken), it was just a small hand-mirror, but he hoped it would do.

'I've got it,' he yelled back to Geralt, 'what should I do?'

'Put it down on the ground and push it towards me.'

He realised that if he did this, Geralt would need to bend down to pick the mirror up, which might cost him a few precious seconds of attention.

'Hold on, I'm bring it over,' he said.

'No!' Geralt shouted, but it was already too late, Jaskier had approached the struggling pair and the monster immediately turned on him. Instinctively, Jaskier lifted his arm in defence, with the only weapon he possessed; the mirror. For the second time in very few minutes, the vicious attack that Jaskier anticipated failed to occur. Instead, there was a thud as the creature fell in the road in front of him, stiff and motionless as if turned to stone.

Jaskier felt himself to be in much the same state, and sank to the ground, shaking in every limb.

'Are you alright?' Geralt was crouching next to him, looking at him with evident concern.

'Geralt,' Jaskier gasped with a shaky laugh, 'I didn't know you cared,' and dissolved into breathless laughter.

Then he saw that Geralt was bleeding; the creature had managed to get its claws into his leg just above the knee.

'You're wounded,' he exclaimed, 'let me see,' and he reached out, cautiously started to move the torn cloth aside to see the injury. Geralt started back.

'It's nothing,' he said, 'Didn't even notice it.'

'Oh, that's good,' was the last thing Jaskier said before he lost consciousness.

* * *

When Jaskier opened his eyes, all he could see was a bright light cutting through the surrounding darkness. He supposed he was lying on the ground, because it certainly wasn't a bed, and outside, because it was cold and there was no shelter from the wind. Mostly he was aware of his head throbbing unpleasantly, a ringing in his ears, and a nasty, empty feeling. Cautiously, he raised his head. This made the headache worse, but he also saw that he was indeed lying on the ground, in front of a fire. What must have woken him was the scent of roasting meat. Geralt was sitting on the other side of the fire, busy skinning a second rabbit.

'Fuck,' was Jaskier's first comment.

'Still alive?' Geralt inquired.

'Only just. I feel horrible. What _was_ that thing?'

'Cockatrice. It paralyses its victims with its gaze. Only way of stopping it is confronting it with its own reflection.'

'Oh,' was Jaskier's brilliant contribution to the conversation. He sat up and looked around. They were in a forest clearing and night was clearly far advanced. Geralt must have carried him here. He felt rather cheated that he had not been awake for that.

'Here, have that rabbit,' Geralt told him, nodding to the animal roasting over the fire. 'You need food after fainting like that.'

Jaskier cautiously took the offered food and went to sit down next to Geralt. 

'Is your leg really alright?' he asked.

Geralt looked puzzled for a moment, as though he had completely forgotten about being attacked, or was surprised at Jaskier's having remembered. 'Yes, fine,' he said shortly.

'So why didn't you have a mirror with you if you were hunting the cockatrice?' Jaskier asked.

'Because I wasn't hunting the cockatrice. I was on my way to deal with a nest of lindworms, didn't know about the cockatrice.'

'Lucky I happened to be around then, eh?' Jaskier said brightly. 'Because if I hadn't been there with the mirror, you would have been in real trouble.'

Geralt glared at him.

'It's true, you know,' Jaskier gloated, 'I think we made a fantastic team.'

'Are you going to eat that?' Geralt demanded. 'It's not going to bite now, you know.'

Jaskier looked down at the carcass of the rabbit. He had never eaten anything cooked over a fire out of doors like that before, and felt sure that it couldn't be safe. Experimentally, he tore a strip of meat with his fingers and ate it. It was shockingly good, and he realised suddenly how very hungry he was. Losing consciousness seemed to have made him absolutely ravenous. 

'So what about the lindworms?' he asked, his mouth full of meat, and speaking around it without regard for good manners.

'I'll deal with them tomorrow,' Geralt said.

'What are they like?' 

'Like large worms.'

'Not very descriptive. I'll have to come see for myself,' Jaskier said.

'Hmm,' was all Geralt said. Jaskier figured that this was all the invitation he was going to get, but he would take what he could. He was surprised that Geralt didn't tell him that he wasn't coming, and decided not to press his luck.

'Shall I play you something?' he asked Geralt, seeing his lute case in the shadows.

'Not unless you want your lute broken,' Geralt said. 'I'm going to sleep.'

'Oh. Do you have another blanket or something? I'm not actually used to sleeping outside.'

Geralt got up, went over to the horse and threw a blanket at his head without saying anything.

'Thank you,' Jaskier said. 'Oh, and Geralt? Thank you for saving my life.'

'Hmm,' was the eloquent response he received.

It was easily one of the most uncomfortable nights Jaskier had ever spent in his life. It was probably only topped by the night he spent hiding under the bed of Lady Catherine Verney, when her husband had come home unexpectedly, forcing Jaskier to make a swift exit and spend the rest of the night listening to Lord Verney's horrible snoring. Jaskier had not slept outside since he was a boy, when he didn't mind doing stupid things like that. The ground was cold and hard, and all sorts of nameless, creepy noises sounded from the wood. He spent about half an hour convinced that they were about to be attacked by wolves, and then a further hour hoping that they would be, so that he would be put out of his misery. The only positive thing that could be said about that night was that Geralt didn't snore. But Jaskier comforted himself with the thought that he had found Geralt, and now would not let himself be deterred until he convinced him to come back to England with him.

* * *  
Jaskier decided that simply continuing his attempts to persuade Geralt to help him would probably prove useless; Geralt had seemed very categorical in his refusal. So he decided to find a pretext for accompanying Geralt first, and then, subtly, return to the attack. It was unfortunate that Jaskier imagined that he could ever be subtle, since he was one of the least subtle people in the world, but he had his delusions. The next morning, after eating what was left of the rabbit and bread that Geralt wordlessly shared with him, Jaskier simply trailed after Geralt, and Geralt did nothing to stop him. Jaskier immediately renewed his attempt to engage Geralt in conversation.

'You know, I couldn't help noticing, when I asked people about you (while I was looking for you), everyone seemed sort of... well... afraid of you. So did the people in Neuburg.'

Jaskier paused to give Geralt an opening to answer. He didn't.

'Bit silly of them,' Jaskier went on, undaunted. 'I mean, you kill whatever creatures are bothering them, and instead of thanking you on bended knee, as they should, they shun you. Now, what about this? I told you I'm a poet, well, why don't I write some ballads about you that will show you in a different light? Once people start hearing about Geralt of Rivia, the hero, the slayer of dragons, the nemesis of demons, they'll be a lot nicer to you. What about it?'

'Your German is atrocious.'

Jaskier would _not_ allow himself to be offended. 'Well, that's true, but I can write the ballads in French. My French is _excellent_ , so is my Spanish. My mother was Spanish, so I've known it from birth. That way you'll get some publicity outside of Germany, surely you've done enough here. There's bound to be lots of monsters in France and Spain. Or, here's an idea, as I told you, I'm working on my great English epic in praise of the Virgin Queen, I could put you in it! My rival, Edmund Spenser, is always putting allegorical elfin knights into his stupid poem, and now I've met a real one! What an advantage that will be for my book, just think of the publicity! Let's see, where can I put you in? You can be the allegory of Charity vanquishing Mammon.'

'I don't want to vanquish Mammon, I want to get paid.'

'Right, yes, that might have been a bad choice. You could be the might of the Church of England crushing Popery. Wait, are you a Catholic?'

'No.'

'Are you a Protestant? I suppose you're not Church of England anyways?'

'I'm not part of any church. Don't you know, a poet like you? The people of faerie are excluded from all Christian sacraments and practices. We're between Heaven and Hell, forever banished from God's grace, yet not damned. I'm an unbaptized being, I cannot enter a church or walk on consecrated ground.'

Jaskier was taken aback. Not only was this the most he had heard Geralt say at once, he spoke with an unmistakable note of bitterness. Jaskier cast about for words of comfort he could offer.

'Well,' he said, 'you know, I don't think anyone in England would mind that sort of thing, as long as you're not a Catholic.'

Geralt smiled, well, it was more of an animal snarl, lip pulled back to show a line of intimidatingly large, straight, white teeth, almost like fangs, but it was unmistakably the expression of genuine amusement. Despite the harshness of this smile, it seemed to light up Geralt's face in a way that Jaskier wanted to see again.

'Shame I'm not going to England, then,' Geralt said.

'Well, you _could_ go to England, I mean, there's no one stopping you, in fact, quite the opposite...'

'Jaskier. I'm not going to England. Leave it.'

'Right, yeah,' Jaskier said, and they walked on together.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MUTUAL PINING + I weight in on the slow heart rate issue. Also some random fae stories.

Two weeks later, Jaskier was still following Geralt. He had thought that he knew about adventures, but he now found that the books he had read and ballads he had heard had left out rain, cold, the unpleasantness of sleeping on the hard ground, the lack of baths and clean clothes, the sore feet and aching muscles. They also hadn't mentioned that adventures tended to be extremely nerve-racking. He had witnessed Geralt dispatch the nest of lindworms and defeat a griffin and a hydra, and had been absolutely terrified. He had not again fainted as he had done after the encounter with the cockatrice, but he was each time so frightened for Geralt that he could barely watch. 

Yet it did not even enter into Jaskier's head to part ways with Geralt. Ostensibly, he told himself that he could not abandon his quest. But then there was Geralt. He was downright magnetic. He seemed to be surrounded by a kind of aura of mystery and power, and Jaskier was constantly trying to determine where the boundary lay between Geralt's physical presence and this strange aura, almost like a glamour. He was fascinated by the way Geralt moved; so agile and quick for a man so large, with an uncanny sort of grace that seemed to belong rather to an animal than a human. But then, of course, Geralt wasn't quite human. He was not taller than Jaskier by much, but seemed to tower over him. Every part of him was full of a strength that Jaskier had never even imagined, an utterly immovable, steely strength. Even his hands, though fine and long-fingered, gave that impression of power. Though Jaskier delighted in noting the swell and tension of muscle that he could see through Geralt's clothes (and spent quite an excessive amount of time imagining what it would be like to press that flesh with his own fingers), he knew that it wasn't just pure physical brawn that accounted for Geralt's strength. There was something else, something otherworldly, something mixed up with the fascinating colour of his amber eyes and white hair and the inscrutability of his face. That air of mystery, of things unspoken and concealed, of stories to be told drew Jaskier towards him. It was only natural, after all, Jaskier told stories, and Geralt had stories to tell, but would not tell them. How Jaskier longed to get a glimpse into the world behind those eyes, behind that expression of indifference tinged with bitterness.

But the biggest mystery to him at the moment was why Geralt was allowing Jaskier to go along with him.

* * *  


Jaskier would have been surprised at the answer, could he have obtained it. He would certainly never have guessed it. The fact was that after he had paralysed the cockatrice and was sitting on the ground, almost fainting with shock, Jaskier had noticed that Geralt was wounded and had reached out to help him. Jaskier himself barely even remembered doing this, it had seemed like the most natural, normal reaction in the world, and he would never have thought that anyone would do differently.

But Geralt had long become accustomed to being shunned, despised, un-cared for. When Jaskier had first come up to speak with him, and then started following him, Geralt barely saw him, Jaskier simply did not register in Geralt's mind, which was fixed on other things. He was not even properly aware of what Jaskier looked like, he was just a random piece out of the human miscellany of the world, which Geralt was forever separated from. But when, on that road, Jaskier had reached out to see if Geralt was seriously hurt, something in Geralt's heart turned over. The sensation of Jaskier's fingers brushing against his flesh shocked him more than the claws of the cockatrice had hurt him. It was as though he felt the tiny pressure of that gentle hand ten times keener than the slash of the beast's claws, as though it gouged deeper into his skin than the violence of the bloody attack. The fact that this man, who was in shock, almost on the verge of hysteria, about to fall into a feint, had instinctively reached out for him, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, felt to Geralt like a sudden displacement of the world, an earthquake that trembled in his bones. He suddenly _saw_ Jaskier, saw the blue eyes fixed on him with concern, the rather foolish face, so eager and compassionate. Such a simple gesture, yet it stunned Geralt, who was not used to simple gestures. 

When Geralt had told Jaskier that he was unbaptized and excluded from any church, he had simply taken it in his stride. He hadn't been afraid or repulsed, as Geralt had grown to expect from most. He had looked, if anything, sorry for Geralt. That was new, being pitied, or perhaps not pitied, but feeling the conscious attempt at understanding. He knew that Jaskier could never really understand, but Geralt was filled with an awed bewilderment at his attempt. 

And then there was Jaskier's constant chatter. Nothing (except for food and drink and often not even that) seemed capable of making him shut up. At first, his incessant talking irritated Geralt, but slowly, he became aware that he did not mind it. There was something pleasant in the flow of words, something that felt like basking in the warmth of spring sunlight after a long winter. Geralt could not understand at once what it was about Jaskier's talk that filled him with happiness, but then it dawned on him. It was not what Jaskier was saying, so much as the fact that he was talking to him, no, chattering _at Geralt_ as if this was perfectly normal. Geralt was accustomed to people falling silent before him, choosing their words carefully for fear of offending, or else unsure of what to say to him at all. And here was Jaskier, with no lack of things to say, clearly not in the least inhibited by Geralt's presence, by his silence, by his appearance. Jaskier's words fell over him like water, the comforting presence of his voice soothing something within him that he did not know was aching, changing him. 

Jaskier, against all odds, made Geralt suddenly, painfully aware that there was something in life that he was missing and which he had not even known (or else had long forgotten), and that something shone out of a pair of blue eyes and a disarming smile without any effort or consciousness, but was freely given without being asked. Geralt had never known he needed that strange something that much, had never felt its absence until its presence made it known.

* * *  


Geralt heals fast, much faster than is natural, probably at about the speed that knights in _Le Morte d'Arthur_ are 'well eased of their wounds' and well on their way with the fantastic celerity convenient to moving the plot forward. Jaskier found this out when he had been travelling with Geralt for about three weeks. The German lands seemed to be oversupplied with dragons of various kinds, many of which Jaskier had never heard of, and Geralt was commissioned to slay an amphitere. Jaskier by now had considerable confidence in Geralt's abilities to defeat terrifying creatures, but this one was larger than any he had seen so far. This did not seem to deter Geralt in the slightest, and a long struggle ensued, which Jaskier could barely follow, so furious and confused it was. 

Then, to his absolute horror, he saw the amphitere strike Geralt across the shoulder with its foot-long, razor-sharp talons, throwing him down. Jaskier was paralysed with panic. He was sure that Geralt could not have survived that blow and his mind went blank with terror. But then he saw, to his astonished and unspeakable relief, Geralt roll aside from the beast's attack and, with his lighting-quick agility, surge up again to plunge his sword into the dragon's belly, every motion perfectly balanced and sure. But as soon as he moved away from the now-dying creature, Geralt staggered. 

'Geralt!' Jaskier ran up to him, calling his name as a hot wash of fear swept over him. He had never seen Geralt as much as stumble before.

Geralt was struggling to get his armour undone, which Jaskier now saw was gouged through at the back. As Geralt pulled it off, Jaskier saw blood shining slickly on the black fabric of his shirt. He could actually smell it in the air. Wordlessly, he began helping Geralt get the shirt off, and Geralt seemed to be oddly slow to move. There was a line of three deep cuts right across his back and shoulder, and Jaskier was just beginning to think in panic that he knew nothing about how to deal with this, and could Geralt just die of blood loss, when he saw that he had almost stopped bleeding, which was surprising, since the blood had a minute ago soaked the discarded shirt and spilled on the ground. 

'I'll try to bandage this - ' he began, but Geralt waved him aside impatiently.

'Don't need to,' he said, and his speech was slightly slower than usual.

Jaskier gripped his arm, thinking that he might need to help Geralt if he was about to fall (much help he would be, he was going to support Geralt's weight as easily as flying to the moon), and then started back in shock. He had assumed that Geralt would be exceptionally warm, was sure that touching him would be like approaching the warmth of a fire. But he was cold, horribly cold, like something out of which life had almost utterly drained.

'You're freezing, Geralt, what's wrong?'

'It's normal,' Geralt muttered, 'don't worry about it. Fuck, I need to sleep.'

'To sleep? You need that wound seen to - '

'No, it'll be alright, I just need to sleep,' Geralt repeated. He sounded so tired, as if every word was an effort. 'I might sleep for a long time. Don't concern yourself.'

And before Jaskier could say anything else, Geralt just lay down, almost next to the amphitere he had just slain, and fell into a deep sleep within seconds. Jaskier stared at him, but there was nothing he could do. Geralt probably knew best what to do, probably his body did not work in the same way other humans' did. Jaskier thought it would be best not to touch him, no matter how concerned he was. He was frightened at his deathly cold flesh, at the open wounds, at the strange sleep. But the best he could do was to stay by Geralt's side and make sure nothing happened. It was still only early evening, and Jaskier stayed where he was until the sun set. Then he lit a fire, ate what little he could manage with his belly knotted in anxiety, and went to sleep himself by Geralt's side.

When he awoke in the morning (Jaskier had, incredibly, become so used to sleeping out of door that he could now sleep the entire night through), Geralt was still asleep, but to his intense astonishment, the wounds on his back had almost completely closed. The previous day, Jaskier had been too shaken by seeing the fight with the dragon and too frightened for Geralt to think coherently, and this had made him so exhausted that he had slept like the dead. But now, in the sane, clean morning light, his stunned thoughts and feelings seemed to wake up as well. He felt, suddenly, a flood of tenderness as he looked at Geralt. In effect, he, Jaskier, had spend all night _protecting_ Geralt. He lay in that strange sleep, so vulnerable, it was bizarre to think of Geralt as vulnerable, and Jaskier was swept away in a strange tide of confusion and tenderness. He wanted to shield Geralt from whatever might threaten him. Usually, his feelings towards Geralt were a heady mix of desire and fascination, and this was new, this sweet, gentle feeling, almost painful in its delicacy. He gazed at Geralt, the bare skin that he had not seen before, the soft movement as he breathed, the silver-pale hair lying loose, a few strands across his face. Without thinking, Jaskier reached out to brush it away, and received another surprise. Geralt was warm; heat radiated from his skin as from molten metal. Life seemed to pulse through him, Jaskier could almost feel the blood rushing, steady and strong, through his veins.

It was several more hours before Geralt woke up. The unnaturally fast healing process had continued, and the cuts on his back were already merely raw, red lines. Hearing Geralt finally stir, Jaskier came over a knelt by him on the ground.

'Nice of you to rejoin the world of the living,' he remarked. 'Here, eat this,' he held out bread that he had just toasted with the rather nice cheese they had bought in a nearby town. 'But don't expect me to get you breakfast in bed as a regular thing.'

Geralt moaned and sat up, looked at the bread in annoyance and said, 'Good, because I think that's more charcoal than bread by now.'

'And that's all the thanks I get,' Jaskier exclaimed histrionically, making a pantomime of inviting an invisible audience to commiserate with his ill-treatment. 'I stand guard over you, making sure you're safe while you sleep about twenty hours, and what do I get? Complaints about my cooking. What if bandits had come and tried to kill you?'

'What could you have done, sang at them?' Geralt asked. 'Actually, that might have scared them off.'

'Oh, lovely, now we're moving on to my singing. Does getting injured always make you this charming?'

Geralt didn't answer. He was looking at the cheese as if it was posing a serious philosophical problem.

'What's wrong with the cheese?' Jaskier demanded. 'What other complaints do you have?'

Geralt looked at him. His eyes were different suddenly, strange, heated, glowing enticingly. He looked hungry and tense. Jaskier shook himself. Geralt was probably just actually hungry. He looked away, because he felt that if he looked at Geralt for too long, his own eyes would betray him, reveal what he had just thought and felt, reveal how hungry Geralt's dishevelled and under-dressed state was making him and how intense the bewildering affection he had formed was now becoming.

* * *

Jaskier had been right in guessing that Geralt had certain non-human capacities when it came to healing. As soon as he had slain the amphitere, he slowed his heart, which he could do at will, so that the flow of blood almost ceased. Since his heart had, moments ago, been racing, doing this made Geralt incredibly tired. Slowing his heart usually made him sluggish and slightly sleepy, but coming right after the struggle with the amphitere, the surge of excitement and effort, it left him barely able to stand. This was also the reason for the abrupt drop in temperature. Whenever he did this he grew cold, as all his vitality seemed to draw in, dimming to a faint spark. The pain of the injury didn't bother him greatly; initially he had been too full of adrenaline to feel it, and as soon as his heart slowed, he felt rather distant from his own body. What he wanted most was sleep, during which he knew that he would heal. But even as Geralt haltingly undid his armour, he saw Jaskier come rushing to him, full of concern. He responded to Jaskier through a haze of tiredness, barely knowing what he was saying, but from far away, he could feel a sort of ghostly warmth at Jaskier's touch, at his anxious eyes, his careful hands. Geralt felt a deep and unexpected contentment, an odd, secure sensation of safety as he slipped into sleep, as though it was not just his body that was healing.

He awoke closer to noon than sunrise, to the touch of warm sun on his bare skin, a feeling that seemed to be an extension of the security he had felt in his sleep. His shoulder was sore where the torn muscle had freshly healed, but mostly, he felt unaccountably... happy. This was not simply triumph at having slain the amphitere, that sort of triumph was very short-lived and usually somewhat bitter. This was something new. The world looked brighter and more full of colour. Perhaps, Geralt thought, it was simply the fact that his previously slowed heart was now beating much faster to speed up the healing, sending his blood rushing in a kind of imitation of happiness. Was that it?

'Nice of you to rejoin the world of the living,' Jaskier's voice said above his head. 'Here, eat this,' he said, holding out bread and cheese. 'But don't expect me to get you breakfast in bed as a regular thing.'

Warmth flooded Geralt again, Jaskier was _teasing_ , and that was still so unfamiliar and pleasant that he wanted to laugh. Really, this whole thing with slowing and speeding his heartbeat was making him feel unaccountably strange.

As he reached out to take the food from Jaskier, their hands touched, the merest quick brush, and Geralt instinctively looked into Jaskier's blue, happy eyes. And something, another one of those private earthquakes, jolted inside him and it took him a few dazed seconds to realise that it was... desire. Geralt looked away in stunned surprise. He couldn't believe this was happening, but it was unmistakable. And it wasn't just filthy yet clean lust, pure as animals feel; that he could have borne, but this was the craving to caress and be caressed, to touch with tenderness and kiss and cherish; the worst sort of desire, the most dangerous. This feeling flooded him, and he was suddenly conscious of the fact that he was partially undressed as his body ached for contact, as it had not ached from the wound he had received. He looked at Jaskier again, and just... wanted.

'Are you alright, Geralt? You've stopped complaining, so you must be unwell.'

Geralt's heart gave a little stutter of pleasure at hearing Jaskier say his name. This was going to be an absolute disaster.

* * *

Jaskier was rapidly becoming convinced that if Geralt knew his desires, he would simply leave him. Geralt was hard to read on this (well, he was hard to read on almost anything, but this especially). Jaskier was used to a court culture of flirtation, of easy couplings, often with men. Some things at court were just known and tacitly accepted, for instance that certain nobles liked to act as patrons, and the poets or artists who received their support were expected to share their bed. Or that a young and attractive poet would be more than willing to leave with another poet or writer or actor at the end of a night of hard drinking. But Geralt couldn't be expected to know any of these things. If he had ever lived at a court, it would have been a very different one from the one Jaskier knew. What sort of ideas did Geralt have about intimacy between men? Did it disgust him, or was he simply indifferent? He didn't dare hope that Geralt might actually be interested. Jaskier had dropped fairly obvious hints of his interest from the start of their acquaintance, and since Geralt had not responded in any way, Jaskier had to assume that he either didn't understand him or was clearly indicating his indifference. But which was it? These questions preoccupied Jaskier a great deal, mostly because he had an incurably curious mind. He knew that Geralt took human lovers, but that was about all that he had been able to glean. He had asked Geralt about the rumour relating to the sorceress, Yennifer, and Geralt had moaned, 'That was one time,' in such pitiable exasperation that Jaskier couldn't help but laugh. It appeared, from what Jaskier was able to piece together from Geralt's not-very-forthcoming replies, that he had once had a very passionate encounter with this sorceress, which had accidentally been witnessed by several people, and someone started a rumour that they were living together. This, however, was the extent of what he could discover of Geralt's amorous exploits and partners, no matter how many teasing questions he posed.

He did, however, manage to elicit other facts about Geralt's life, all of them reluctantly imparted. Sometimes, Jaskier reflected, talking to Geralt was like pulling teeth. This was what he managed to gather from Geralt's grudging accounts. Geralt had been born about a century after the Conquest, somewhere in the Weald of Kent, into an ancient Anglo-Saxon family, one of the few to retain its now-meagre estate, but Geralt had refused to tell his family name. His father had, apparently, been fantastically handsome (not surprising, Jaskier reflected, given that Geralt looked _like that_ ) and had attracted the attention of a lady from Faerie. He had fallen madly in love with her, and begged her to become his wife. She, however, could not enter a church, so they could not be legally wed, but she promised to live with him as a wife, as long as he promised that if she asked him, he would allow her to leave. He promised, and they pledged their troth to one another in some pagan rite, probably a handfasting, instead of a Christian marriage. In time, she bore him a son, Geralt. Then, about a year later, she left. She just walked away across the fields one day and was never seen again, giving no thought to the husband or child she was leaving behind. Geralt's father went insane from grief at his wife's departure, and spent the rest of his life roaming the fields restlessly, hoping she would return to him. He had little thought to spare for his child. Here Geralt's story abruptly cut off, and Jaskier could get no further information. When he asked Geralt how he came to make a career of fighting monsters, Geralt simply shrugged, as if this was a perfectly natural decision. Jaskier sighed. There was clearly no getting anything out of him beyond a certain point.

Jaskier noticed, however, that Geralt seemed to enjoy hearing him talk about England, or at least he seemed more responsive than at other times. He noticed this the first time he made Geralt laugh. This was a momentous occasion, and Jaskier considered breaking through Geralt's perpetual surliness and gloom, even momentarily, one of his greatest accomplishments to date. He had broken out his best party trick: imitating accents. Jaskier had a wonderful ear for music, honed by extensive tutelage when he was young. Because of this, he was able to mimic almost any accent perfectly. He started with Highland Scottish and moved south steadily, zigzaging from east to west along the way. To his surprise, Geralt was at first genuinely interested, then amused, then started to laugh. It now occurred to Jaskier that Geralt had not been in England for many decades, perhaps centuries, and he would naturally be interested to hear how accents had changed, or perhaps how they had stayed the same. Just as Jaskier had expected, the laughter made his eyes shine, and his whole face look more open, and even more attractive. Jaskier wanted to look at it forever. 

He tried to ask Geralt how long ago he had left England, but in response, Geralt stopped laughing abruptly, and settled back into his customary gloom. 'A long time ago,' was all he would say.

* * *  


Usually, Geralt did not think about England. He had for many years simply not allowed himself to remember. But hearing Jaskier talk about England, he was unable to stop the thoughts and flood of memories. Sometimes, Jaskier's voice seemed to fade away and dovetail seamlessly into sights and sounds and scents that Geralt was surprised to find perfectly preserved in his memory. Pale yellow summer sunshine on hedges and ploughed fields, the smell of cattle and freshness in the air. Stormy, gloriously roiling skies of winter shedding rain on faraway hills and calling up the scent of wet earth. The rough, cold stone of castle walls. The darkness of forests of oak and ash and the murmur of the leaves. He wanted to tell Jaskier to for God's sake shut up, but the homesickness he felt was oddly addictive. He wanted to keep dwelling in it, luxuriating in the wish to see it all again. Through Jaskier's words and his joyful voice, he saw only what was beautiful and clean and good, but he had to keep reminding himself that there was baseness and betrayal and pain. He couldn't go back, of course. It had been almost a century and a half. He couldn't go back now.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flashback chapter, I liked the whole Renfri story, so now it's happening during the Wars of the Roses.

Though Geralt steered his thoughts away from the events which had caused him to leave England, they intruded on his dreams, where he could not curb them. Jaskier's talk had awokened all those old memories, and now they would not leave Geralt alone, which ought to have made him angry with Jaskier, except that it just didn't. Geralt did not often dream, but when he did, it was with torturous vividness, as he did now, memories welling up like blood from a wound.

* * *  
In the year 1460, Geralt lived in the world that made sense. It was organised according to ancient, rigid, and seemingly eternal and immutable hierarchies and traditions. He didn't truly live _in_ that world, rather, he existed on the fringes of it. He was the last descendant of his ancient family, and the line therefore terminated with him. After his father's death, the family's lands had been taken by the Crown, and Geralt was associated more with the creatures he hunted and slew than with other humans. He could prevail where almost any human knight would fail, which made him unique and invaluable, but he was also, due to his parentage, excluded from the Church. And since most of society revolved around and depended on the Church, Geralt was almost completely excluded from society as well. It did not occur to him to mind this, since this was simply the Order of Things. It was only right and proper that those excluded from the church should be thought unclean or corrupt, that was the way the world worked. Geralt knew that the world had to have some sort of structure in order to save it from collapse into chaos, and therefore he did not quarrel with it. 

Life on the borderland between this world and another was not a bad one, either. There were many other creatures dwelling there besides monsters; benevolent spirits of all sorts, nymphs, dryads, selkies, gnomes. Various humans ventured there too, all sorts of workers of magic and seekers after arcane knowledge, druids, witches, sorcerers. It would also have satisfied Jaskier's curiosity to know that Geralt often took lovers among the people and creatures there, to whom differences of sex were a matter of complete indifference. Living at a remove from the world of men, Geralt was not particularly interested in what was considered proper or even criminal. The fact that certain sexual unions were condemned by the church did not mean much to Geralt, who was, in a way, also condemned by it.

By this point, Geralt had been alive for almost three hundred years, and the wars and inner strife that had convulsed all of the British Isles during this time largely passed by him. He was aware of events, but did not consider them as something he ought to get involved in. He had no land and no men to bring to the wars, so he was not needed. He continued to dwell in the dubious twilight region between this world and the Other, the Faerie world, where unholy creatures roamed and threatened the safety of men. But in late December of 1460, Geralt was, to his surprise, summoned to Scotland, where Queen Margaret was gathering troops against her Yorkist enemies.

Margaret of Anjou was then only thirty, but had already proven herself to be a more competent military leader than most men, with a will of iron, and great courage. She in effect ruled England, while her husband languished in repeated fits of madness. She greeted Geralt in the hall of the great house where she was staying, a tall, formidable beauty with flaxen hair and dark brows that were drawn together with thought. Their frown deepened when she addressed Geralt. She spoke in French, both her own native language and the language of the law and nobility of the time.

'You must forgive me, I do not know how to address you. I have asked my nobles, but no one seems to know your title.'

'I have none,' he told her.

'Well, my lord,' she said, smiling graciously, 'I have a favour to ask you. Please, come and sit with me. Leave us!' she called to the assembled lords and her ladies-in-waiting, who were hovering about. They all obediently left the hall. Margaret poured a goblet of wine herself and gave it to Geralt, this would have been the duty of a servant, but she clearly wished to demonstrate her goodwill.

'I have asked you to come to me because of the wicked and godless war that the Duke of York has been waging against my honoured lord and husband, Henry, these many years.'

She paused, but Geralt said nothing. She probably expected him to express his loyalty or sympathy for her and Henry.

'You must know that one of York's most trusted councillors and generals is Richard, the Earl of Warwick. Well, this foul Earl has a natural daughter, one Rowena, who is a great sorceress. It is said that she was born beneath an accursed star, and that her heart has rotted in her breast because she has made a pact with the devil. I have heard that she is with her father's army at Wakefield, where she is making preparations to use her black arts against the King's army. I need the help of one who knows of magic and enchantment, and who can stop her. I have heard tell that the nefarious arts of the Devil have no effect on you, no doubt because of your pure and high heart. Would you give your aid to stop her, my lord?'

Geralt shifted, annoyed. He disliked being flattered. 'I have never yet seen man or beast with a rotten heart,' he said.

'Ah, but she is a very wicked woman,' Margaret insisted. 'I know you do not involve yourself in military conflicts, but this is quite a different matter. It is a matter of a sorceress attempting to pervert God's justice. Do not you see? She seeks to use an unfair advantage to secure victory for her father's forces. And you know that God's favour is on our side, on the side of my husband, the true anointed king of this land. Will you not serve your king, now that he asks for your help?'

When Geralt said nothing, she went on. 'You say you have no title, but I have been told that your family was once a very great one. Now that this matter has come to our attention, His Majesty will restore to you the lands your family once held. He always rewards his friends well.'

Geralt stood up impatiently. 'I do not want a title. But you are right; your husband is my king, and I will do as you and he ask in this matter.'

He was not even aware of deciding, he simply knew that he must do it, it was his part to play in the structure of the world to which he was accustomed. Even though he did not like Margaret and her flattery and attempts at bribery and her false, light green eyes, Henry was the crowned king, so God must be on his side, and it was the duty of all who lived in their land to defend them against rebellion and the works of the Devil. It was perfectly simple when seen like that. There was even no choice to speak of.

Disregarding as far as possible the queen's elaborate and palpably deceitful thanks, Geralt left and rode for Wakefield. 

Rowena was not hard to find. She was, he was told, lodged at the Crown inn, which Geralt found slightly ironic. Apparently she was there holding a council of war with some of her father's men. 

As Geralt walked into the inn, voices ceased abruptly. People fell back from his path, some making the sign of the cross. It was one of _those_ places. Sometimes, Geralt was greeted with interest, curiosity and generosity. Sometimes, not so much. He walked up to the publican, who stared at him with belligerent apprehension.

'I'm looking for the Lady Rowena,' he said.

'We don't want your kind here,' the publican returned.

Geralt almost-smiled at him. 'Once I find the Lady Rowena, we can talk outside.'

'You don't give the orders around here, devil-spawn,' a voice behind him said. Geralt looked over his shoulder. A vile-looking thug had stepped forward, clearly spoiling for a fight.

'Hear that?' the publican said. 'Go. On your own, or at the end of a rope, your choice.'

Geralt reflected ruefully that a day ago, he was being flattered and served wine by a queen, and now he was being abused by a bunch of filthy, superstitious villagers and thugs. 'Not a hard choice,' he said.

'Yeah, fuck that, kill him with your bare hands if you have to,' the publican told the men now crowding in behind the first one.

'Come on, you're not scared of us, are you?' the man jeered. 'Show us what you've got.'

'Can you not leave it alone for a moment?' came an exasperated, commanding voice, a woman's voice behind Geralt. 'I apologise for my man's interference in your day,' she said, clearly addressing Geralt, her voice now soft and silky. 'Hopefully he can improve his behaviour.'

'Sorry, Renfri,' the man muttered, resentful but obedient, and turned away, waving his companions to join him.

Geralt turned around. A finely-dressed woman with loosened brown curls stood looking at him out of enormous brown eyes. Her clothes clearly indicated money and power, but the unbound hair was a defiance of propriety, placing her outside the dictates of convention.

'Renfri?' he asked, frowning in inquiry.

'A nickname,' she shrugged. 'Though I appreciate the courtesy, I am no lady, in title or in deed.'

She walked towards him, clearly waiting for him to speak. When he did not, she continued. 'I know who you are,' she grinned. 'The White Wolf, the faerie-born. Well, you wanted to speak to me, Geralt?'

'Come outside,' he said, and turned to the door without checking whether she was following. 

She was. When they stepped outside, into the quiet courtyard, she spoke again. 'I assume you were sent to stop me. Have you become Margaret's lap-dog, White Wolf?'

He looked at her, in a way that made most people flinch. She didn't look away, but stared defiance out of her huge eyes.

'I came because you are standing in the way of God's will,' he told her. 'The king is divinely ordained to rule. You are setting yourself against God's anointed, and if you do not forsake your purpose, I will stop you.'

'So you ask me to turn my back upon my father?'

'It is God who decides the outcome of battles, Renfri. Leave your sorcery and let God give the victory to him to deserves it. If it is God's will that your father and the Duke of York win the crown, then it will happen. And if not, then no magical interference from you will help them for long. They may gain a victory now, but will suffer for it later. Your attempt to use your powers on his behalf might call down divine wrath upon your father. Is that what you want?'

She stared at him. 'Do you really believe that?' she asked. She sounded puzzled and slightly contemptuous.

He didn't answer her question. 'I _will_ stop you if you do not leave,' he said.

She looked away, sighed, and leaned against the wall, making an almost idle gesture with her hand. Instantly, a thin line of flame started at her feet and moved, like a snake, towards Geralt. But a few inches from him, the flames suddenly stopped. She looked up at him.

'So the stories are true. Magic had no effect on you.'

'What's your answer, Renfri?'

'Give me until tomorrow morning to decide. Come to this place tomorrow at dawn and I will give you my answer.'

Without another word, Geralt turned and left.

He decided to spend the night in the forest rather than in the city; if the people in The Crown were anything to go by, the residents of Wakefield weren't exactly going to be friendly. But Geralt did not have to wait until morning for Renfri's answer. Just as the twilight was gathering, she came to him in the forest, moving out of the deepening shadows like a spirit, wrapped in a fur-lined cloak. He supposed she found him by magic. She came towards him, the hem of her dress stirring the fallen leaves, until she stood in front of him where he sat on a fallen tree. Wordlessly, he looked up at her, questioning.

'I have made my decision,' she told him, looking at him steadily, her hands clasped in front of her. 'You have given me an ultimatum, and I find they work. I have sent word to my father that my powers can be of no help to him, and I will leave tomorrow.'

Geralt frowned, not trusting her. She seemed too docile.

'But tell me,' she went on, when he said nothing, 'what am I to do? Have you not heard that I was accursed from the moment of my birth?'

'And are you?' he asked.

'I do not know. What do I know of these things? I do not feel cursed.'

'Then perhaps you are not.'

She moved forward. Geralt tensed, instinctively, but she only sat down on the fallen tree next to him, close, so that her dress almost touched him.

'Then what am I to do?' she asked again. 'If I was not born to do evil, what was I born to do? And if I was, how can I escape my destiny? Tell me, if you think you know of such things.'

'Go to the shrine of Thomas Becket in Canterbury,' he told her. 'There are priests there who can answer you better than I can, and it is said that the relics of the saint work miracles. Perhaps your way will be revealed to you there.'

'Then take me there yourself. Let us leave this place tomorrow together.'

Geralt looked at her, considering. She was virtually placing herself in his power, and by accompanying her, he would ensure her removal. He nodded.

'Tomorrow,' she said, very softly. 'But tonight...' she trailed off, with a soft smile. Her eyes blinked slowly, beguiling. 

Gently, she put her hand on his knee, the lightest touch, a scintilla of desire. She reached up, and pushed the loose strands of hair away from his eyes. Her own eyes dropped to his lips. They moved closer to one another, slowly, like leaves stirred by a slight breeze. They kissed, delicate at first, the brush of open lips. They made love through the cold winter night, Renfri enveloping them in an enchanted cocoon of warmth, lying on her fur-lined cloak.

In the morning, Geralt woke alone, on the cold ground. He was momentarily dazed, then he leapt to his feet, cursing himself. Renfri had seduced him in the hope that he would be asleep while she worked her magic. She had probably attempted to cast a spell on him, just in case, though magic had no effect on him. He seized both of his swords, and was halfway to Wakefield before he wondered why she had not just killed him outright, but he had no time to consider this.

Riding into the city, Geralt had no difficulty locating Renfri. The magic she was using attracted the attention of some part of him attuned to seeing such things. Whatever she was doing felt menacing, huge, swirling like a storm. The city was hushed, deserted, everyone either in their houses, terrified by the prospect of the approaching battle, or else part of the army. As he drew nearer to where he could feel Renfri's sorcery, Geralt he found his path blocked by the men he had seen the previous night in The Crown. 

'Get out of the way,' he snarled. He could feel rage and frustration and bitterness building in his lungs.

One of the men in front of him swung a pole-axe menacingly through the air. Another levelled a crossbow at him. To them, Geralt was just one man, without armour, walking straight towards so many of them. The man with the crossbow shot. Geralt knocked the bolt straight out of the air with one swipe of his sword, so fast that it escaped the eye.

Then he killed them all. It was easy. The victory was already turning to gall at the back of his throat before he had finished with them. He did not want this. There was blood on his hands, on his face, none of it his own.

Now that the ground was littered with bodies, he could see Renfri, standing with her back to him. She turned around. She was dressed in men's clothes now, and she carried a sword. Her hair was still loose, her eyes were still inscrutable.

'I knew you would come,' she said. 'Did you really think that I would go with you, as a penitent, to kneel at a shrine and pray for God's mercy? Would you have me barefoot, in sackcloth and ashes as well? You think yourself the instrument of God's will. You, who cannot walk on holy ground. Well, go on then. Cut my rotten heart out with your silver sword.'

'Silver is for monsters,' he told her.

She drew her sword. 'Yes. So use it.' She walked towards him, purposeful, ready.

He moved back, unwilling to fight her. 'Renfri. Stop. You can still stop.'

'I can't,' she breathed, and in one more stride she was upon him. She fought well, so well. At first, Geralt tried to simply keep her at bay, but she kept getting under his defences, until she slashed at his thigh, cutting him shallowly, in a mockery of the way she had laid her hand there the previous night. She forced Geralt to advance on her in turn, matching him twist for twist and blow for blow. Then he managed to press her against the wall of a house behind her, their swords locked.

'Don't you see,' she gasped, 'we're not so different. What do you think you are, blessed? You are cast out of God's grace just as I am.' And she contrived, with one hand, to pull a knife out of her belt. By something that must have been sheer instinct, Geralt caught her movement with the tail of his eye and seized her wrist just as she was about to drive the knife into him. Taking advantage of the distraction, Renfri shoved him away, and renewed her attack. But one slight misstep, perhaps on a loose cobblestone, perhaps staggering after being pushed against the wall, cost her the duel. Geralt twisted his sword around hers and sent is spinning out of her grasp. They stood still, his sword at her throat, panting, eyes fixed on one another like two cats with their ears back, full of vicious rage. Then Renfri ducked aside and flew in with her knife. With one fluid motion, Geralt caught her arm and pushed it back against her, driving the knife straight into her throat.

Her hot blood spilled over his hand. She looked bemused, puzzled, and suddenly gentle. All the fury left her face as her eyes glazed and she looked lost and scared and so dreadfully young. Geralt caught her as she sank to the ground, so that she would not have to suffer the final seconds alone, the best he could offer her was to die in the arms of both her murderer and her lover. He felt the life go out of her.

She wore a golden jewelled brooch on one shoulder, and Geralt took it, as proof of her death, should it be asked of him. Then he left her lying in the dirt.

Then he stayed to watch the battle. His life would have gone very differently if he had not, but since he had already involved himself in some measure, he felt that he ought to stay and see how it would unfold. Geralt had seen many battles, but never watched any. He rode to the top of a nearby hill, where he could see the proceedings. It was a terrible sight. Men swarmed against one another like ants that crawled over one another on a huge anthill, and Geralt could hear the clash of weapons and the screams. He felt both sick and increasingly deadened to the sights before him. It was soon clear that the Lancastrian forces were going to win the day, but Geralt felt no exultation that the side he had helped was going to be victorious. All he felt was disgust and a sort of creeping dullness. The Lancastrians were merciless to their Yorkist opponents, chasing them down and slaughtering them even as they begged for mercy, just as the Yorkists had done to them in previous battles. No notions of honour seemed to be respected on this field.

Then Geralt saw a man who was clearly Richard, Duke of York himself, easily identified by his standard, his magnificent armour, and the entourage around him taken prisoner by some of the Lancastrian nobles. But rather than leading him from the field of battle, they dragged him off his horse. A long struggle followed, during which the Lancastrians were clearly simply playing with their captive. Then they killed him.

That was when the secure foundations of the world in which Geralt had lived collapsed. He had known well the duties of those to whom God gave victory on the battlefield; to be merciful towards their enemies, to take royal prisoners and keep them honourably until their ransom could be paid. If Henry was the divinely chosen king, that was how he and his knights ought to behave. Geralt saw them transgress against every rule of chivalry and warfare; giving no quarter, slaying their enemies even as they asked for mercy, killing noble prisoners. And if Henry was not God's chosen king, then who was? And whom had Geralt been helping?

The disillusionment was complete and brutal. All the careful, secure structures of the world Geralt had known crumbled into dust. All he was left with were the ruins of a world that no longer existed, and lost in a new world where there was no honour, no right, no wrong, where everything was for the taking and nothing was sacred. He thought suddenly of Renfri. She had fought him, but she had never wanted to kill him. If she had truly wanted him dead, she could have stabbed him as he slept, or even while they were making love. She had no notions of honour such as he had, but she had, in her way, loved. Loved her father, and loved him, and loved life. And Geralt had killed her in order to fulfil what he saw as his duty to an order that no longer existed. Margaret of Anjou had known of his notions of honour and duty, and had manipulated him into killing Renfri, who was likely no more cursed than any one else, so satisfy her own ambitions. Renfri had been right, if anyone was cursed, it was probably him.

All Geralt felt was rage, at himself, at the world that had betrayed him, at the queen who had used him, at the country that had been torn apart again and again by internecine struggle where brother turned on brother, wife on husband, son on father. His rage needed a target, and he decided that the target was England. Without much logic, he fixed on it as a sinful place, which had destroyed all that was sacred in the world. He vowed then to leave England forever, and live in other lands, where honour and God were still respected. Geralt did not think that since England was the only country he had known, it was easy for him to assume that other places would be different, better, purer, simply by virtue of their unfamiliarity and foreignness. He left England, and never questioned the logic of his assumption, because it was made in such desperate anger and because leaving felt like the only possible salve on a wound that threatened to tear him apart.

He could not reopen that wound now and go back. He had taught himself to curse England, and this had become a sort of religion for him. He was not about to go in for conversion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Battle of Wakefield was a major Lancastrian victory, during (or probably after) which the Duke of York was killed. Warwick the Kingmaker did not have an illegitimate daughter named Rowena, but did have one named Margaret. Sorry I made Margaret of Anjou so annoying, I actually like her, but she is kind of evil and scheming, which I think is very sexy of her.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY, some tenderness

Geralt did not dream of the events in Wakefield as a coherent narrative. Rather, they came before him in the night as starkly bright tableaux, ominous with rich colours and clear outlines that seemed more overwhelmingly and painfully present than the real world. And these events were all slightly, horribly askew in his dreams, given a small twist into still more grotesque shapes. He dreamed that he was making love with Renfri, but suddenly as he looked into her eyes, the icy sheen of death, like water freezing over a pond, crept over them, and she dug her fingernails into his skin not in passion, but in the throes of death. He dreamed that Margaret of Anjou was pouring wine and offering it to him, but when he took the goblet, it was full of blood, still warm, still hot. He dreamed that the streets of Wakefield were deserted, but not only that morning when he had walked through the city, but that they were somehow deserted forever, and had always been deserted. Only he and death walked these streets. The sense of emptiness and hollow, eternal silence pressed down upon him. He dreamed that Renfri's dead body lay at his feet and suddenly she raised her eyes, now gleaming and alive with the horrible wound still in her throat, and said, 'We're not so different,' and laughed. Then she held out her arms and called 'Come kiss me, Geralt, come kiss me, don't you like me with my mouth full of blood?'

But there was a voice calling his name, a different voice, a real voice, and someone was shaking his shoulder. 'Geralt! Geralt!' An urgent, insistent voice. Geralt felt as if he had fallen from a great height, and gasped as he suddenly returned to his senses. His eyes flew open. It was dark and someone was above him. Instinctively, he sat up quickly, ready for a fight, and saw Jaskier jump back from him, eyes wide with startled fear. Geralt relaxed and pressed his hand against his aching head, hating himself for frightening Jaskier and incredibly annoyed with him for being there to be frightened.

'What?' he groaned. 'Why can't you just let me sleep?'

'Fuck, Geralt, sorry, but I think you were having a nightmare, you woke me up.'

The blackness of memory and nightmare settled over Geralt, covering him like a shroud, choking him. He could barely breathe, heavy and dazed. What he needed right now was to lie very still and wait for the too-vivid recollections to subside into darkness, for the world to resume its familiar shape, for the sweat to dry on his skin, for his breathing to steady. What he did not need was Jaskier hovering and chattering. Only now, Jaskier didn't chatter, he came closer again, kneeling by Geralt's side.

'Are you alright?' he asked.

It was easy, keeping his emotions in check when there was no one to care, when no one asked. Isolated, Geralt could shove any hurt aside, and move on. He had learned to do that long ago, and was hardened with practice, but he had not learned _this_ , he was not ready for this. He had not imagined how dreadfully intimate it would feel to have someone ask. It left him defenceless, raw and aching. A rush of craving for comfort swept over him. Why couldn't he just shove this aside too? Why did he want to give in to this feeling so badly?

He started as he felt Jaskier's hand on his shoulder. He realised that he had been silent for so long that Jaskier had assumed (rightly, damn it), that he was _not_ alright. Geralt attempted to feel angry at him for this assumption, and failed. 'It was just a dream, whatever it was,' Jaskier said, his voice sweet and soothing. Geralt hated it, but all he wanted was to continue to feel Jaskier's touch. He wanted to be as small and wretched as he felt, small enough for Jaskier to hold in his hand. What an absurd desire, but then most desires were absurd. He wanted physical sensation to drown all the tangled, snarled anger and confusion in him. All that wanting was concentrated in the small point of contact between them, Jaskier's hand on his shoulder, and he thought that if it was withdrawn, a lifeline would be snapped, but he couldn't admit to something so stupid, so he just held still, and hoped that Jaskier would not move. He did move, but he moved closer still, cautiously, as if he did not want to startle Geralt or irritate him (as if Jaskier could ever irritate him, as if Jaskier ever did anything _but_ irritate him). Geralt did not see him move because he had closed his eyes, but he felt it, felt the weight of his presence registering on the edge of his consciousness as an approaching warm darkness on an inner, unseeing eye. Then Jaskier threaded his fingers through Geralt's hair, experimentally at first, then stroking in soothing, repetitive motions, and it felt like heaven, a tiny pleasure magnified out of all proportion by his weakened state into a hypnotic delight.

'It'll be alright,' Jaskier whispered, 'I know it's not, now, but it will be, I promise.'

Geralt's mind protested that this was the most inane thing that Jaskier had ever said (out of all the inane things he said every time he opened his mouth). He could have no idea what Geralt was dreaming about, of his past, so how could he promise anything? But somehow this objection never made it to Geralt's lips. He wanted to believe this ridiculous promise very badly. He craved the security of belief, of utter belief in something, in someone. Why was Jaskier exploiting all his weaknesses? Did he know he was doing so? Geralt became conscious of the fact that quite a considerable amount of time had passed since he had last spoken, but somehow, he had nothing to say. What could he say? Fuck off? Don't leave? Don't stop petting my hair? You don't know shit? All of these seemed bad options. What on earth was Jaskier thinking about his silence?

Then Jaskier stopped stroking his hair, and Geralt felt a completely disproportionate wrench of loss at the withdrawal. But instead, Jaskier put his arm around Geralt's shoulders and pushed him gently back onto the ground, so that they were lying facing each other. Geralt kept his eyes closed. He just allowed Jaskier to nudge him so that they were lying comfortably against one another, and push Geralt's head down against his shoulder, still keeping on arm around him. It felt so unexpectedly wonderful to give up even that tiny amount of self-sufficiency and distance, to be passive to someone else's direction and gentleness. And this was Jaskier, whom he apparently trusted completely, as he just now discovered. But he felt no surprise at this discovery, it was as if he had always known this, the knowledge just waiting to be awakened by Jaskier's touch.

'I bet you're surprised I can shut up for ten seconds, aren't you?' Jaskier asked, softly.

Geralt hummed gently, an ambiguous sound of ascent or amusement or mockery. He had no idea what it meant himself.

'Very eloquent,' Jaskier commented. 'As always. Go to sleep.'

And he pulled Geralt closer still, Geralt could feel the movement of Jaskier's arm against him, could feel his breath and his heartbeat. He breathed in Jaskier's scent; something bitter and sharp, something new and excitingly unfamiliar, but which he immediately learned. A quiet, unobtrusive desire coursed through him; he was too comfortable and too close to the verge of sleep for it to be insistent, but it was that odd alloy of lust and contentment that he so often felt towards Jaskier, now almost overwhelming due to their close proximity. Geralt thought that it was probably fairly ridiculous to feel so completely protected and shielded by a person so much physically slighter and so exceptionally ineffectual, but he had sunk into such previously unplumbed depths of tender warmth that he could not really care in the least.

* * *  


Jaskier stayed awake long after Geralt had fallen asleep in his arms. This thought itself was so exciting that Jaskier felt sure his heartbeat would wake Geralt up again. He could not believe that he was actually lying there, holding Geralt, the harsh, unapproachable Geralt, who usually made it clear that he did not like to be touched. He had had fantasies about all sort of exciting situations with Geralt (the days were often long and the road dull and Geralt refused to talk, so what else was he supposed to think about?), but he had always known that they were only fantasies; Geralt's entire personality, as Jaskier saw it, proud, stand-offish, distant, made any intimacy a complete impossibility. Yet here they were, and this already felt a thousand times more fulfilling than Jaskier's wildest and most inventive and salacious imaginary tableaux. The reality of Geralt's physical presence was glorious. His warm weight against Jaskier's side made him imagine with startling vividness and new, sharp detail exactly how it would feel if Geralt were to use that weight to press him down against the ground, making his breath constrict in his lungs, covering him completely and moving over him... He needed to stop thinking this, especially if he wanted to sleep again. He stirred Geralt's hair lightly, to remind himself of that coarse, thick texture. He wanted to remember it forever. He wanted to tangle his fingers in it and pull. He wanted to hear the sound Geralt would make if he did that. It must be Geralt's scent in his nose and mouth that was making him think these very bothersome thoughts. They were both of them quite dirty, Jaskier supposed, but Geralt smelled intoxicating, not really human, a kind of keen, savage animal scent, hovering on the edge of a feral reek that Jaskier really shouldn't find as exciting as he did. Scent was so immediate, so undeniable, it got into Jaskier's blood the way nothing else did, he could shut his eyes and ignore Geralt's warmth, pretend it was a fire or something, but he couldn't ignore the scent. It suggested so many lewd things to his mind that Jaskier was beginning to think that he wouldn't be able to look Geralt in the face in the morning.

In the morning... Jaskier hadn't thought that far yet. But now he realised that he couldn't possibly stay here with Geralt. If Geralt woke up to find them practically cuddling, he would probably never forgive Jaskier for being a witness, in the light of day, to what he doubtless saw as a weakness. Jaskier was instinctively fantastically adapt at reading the smallest indications of others' thoughts, emotions and moods, and he knew at once that this incident was not to be referred to. If he wanted to keep Geralt's friendship, he could not allude to it, even as a joke. And he had to leave Geralt to sleep alone. Geralt's pride simply would not stand being reminded of this. 

For a few more minutes, Jaskier basked in the feeling of this magnificent creature lying in his arms. Then he sighed, pressed a secret kiss, ever so light, ever so daring, to Geralt's temple, and slipped away.

As Jaskier had foreseen, Geralt made no allusion to the incident the next day, and was even more unresponsive than usual. He was resentful, and unwilling to even look at Jaskier. Also not unexpected, but disappointing. Jaskier started, for the first time in a long time, missing court life. His current life was as different from what he was used to as it was possible to be; he was accustomed to flows of people coming and going, to enclaves gathering and dispersing, to secretly snatched words and whispered confidences, to circles within exclusive circles, to rigid hierarchies and ceremonies, to rules governing who could enter which room at what time, how they could move, where they could look. He was accustomed to warm beds and the texture of fine clothes, to thick walls and tapestries keeping out the cold and the wind and great fires roaring, to sultry bodies pressed playfully against his, to bright laughter, to music and singing. He missed the intricate weft and warp of intrigue and scheming, the friendly battles of clever, allusive conversation, ritual flattery and cunningly veiled insults. Jaskier was mostly surprised at how little he missed all this; he had thought it the substance of his life, the nourishment without which his soul would starve. At first there was the novelty of travelling to distract him, and thinking how he would frame the tales of his wanderings in this distant and romantic land. And now there was Geralt to not simply distract him, but dominate his entire world. It was only on days when Geralt was more than usually uncommunicative and taciturn that Jaskier started missing the court and his friends in London.

To distract himself, Jaskier started talking about life at court. Sometimes, it was easy to talk to Geralt, or rather, sort of talk _at_ him; if Geralt didn't snarl at him to be quiet, he seemed content to just let Jaskier talk. That day, he expected to be rebuffed, but Geralt didn't tell him to shut up. Instead, looking over at him, Jaskier once or twice caught the trace of what might have just been a smile. 

Jaskier expected that the night's incident would never be alluded to again and that he ought to wait another day or so before finding some new way of attempting to persuade Geralt to come to England with him. So he waited, but two nights later, he was again awakened by Geralt. He wasn't actually making that much noise, but the night was so still and the ground so uncomfortable that it didn't take much to wake Jaskier. Geralt's breathing was heavy, tipping over into gasping, and he moaned something that sounded like words, though Jaskier couldn't make them out. He did eventually pick out one name, which sounded like 'Renfri'.

He got up and moved over to Geralt. Cautiously, he knelt by him and, trying not to startle Geralt again as he had last time (not least because he was fairly sure Geralt was capable of accidentally breaking his arm), he squeezed Geralt's shoulder and called his name, endeavouring to make his voice as soothing as possible. He actually felt Geralt start awake under his hands, like a leaping fish, surfacing back to consciousness, his body felt as foreign as that of a fish; all muscle and coiled strength. He sat up and ran a hand through his hair.

Gathering his courage, Jaskier put both arms around him, actually fully embraced him. He half-expected Geralt to shove him away, he felt Geralt tense, as if about to do so, but then instead, he yielded, his solid weight pressed against Jaskier, just staying still. He was hot, too hot from the dream, Jaskier could feel the slickness of sweat through his shirt and the sleep-heat from Geralt's skin. His breathing was still ragged. The amount of trust Geralt was showing by letting Jaskier be there at this moment was almost overwhelming. Jaskier felt as if his heart was weighed down, overflowing. They stayed like that for a long time.

'Geralt,' Jaskier finally dared to whisper. 'Who's Renfri?'

'What?' Geralt's voice sounded rough and startled, clearly not a question he had expected.

'It was a name you said. Who is it?'

There was a long silence, so long that Jaskier assumed Geralt was not going to answer, that he had gone too far by asking. Geralt drew away from him and Jaskier cursed himself for asking. Perhaps now Geralt would never trust him again.

But instead, Geralt told him. It wasn't a very coherent story, and Jaskier had to piece a lot of it together, but he gathered the main gist of it. He let Geralt talk without interruption, it was unusual enough to get Geralt to string a sentence together, let alone tell an entire tale like that, even if he told it bluntly, and clearly with many assumptions that Jaskier would understand much more than he did. But he did grasp the sense of betrayal, of despair, of frustration.

'You keep asking why I won't go to England,' Geralt said, 'now I've told you. I'm not going back to a land where nothing is held sacred, where there is nothing but greed and self-interest.'

Jaskier ventured to object. 'I do see what you mean. But is _anywhere_ really better? Don't you think the world might have changed in a few centuries? I mean, I don't see that people behave much better in France or the Empire or Spain. Everyone betrays everyone else. I think it might just be the way the world works these days.'

This was a mistake. In the darkness, Jaskier could almost feel, rather than see Geralt tense, become darker, denser with fury.

'What the fuck do you think you know about the way the world works?' Geralt snarled. 'You've spent your whole life in a petty little court, writing little poems, choosing pretty clothes, and you think you can tell me how the world works?'

There was a note in his voice that Jaskier had not heard before, a naked aggression like the flash of a bright blade gleaming in darkness. Geralt was almost shouting, but his voice seemed to get deeper (instead of higher, as most people's did) and closer to a wolfish growl that for the first time genuinely frightened Jaskier. He had never been frightened of Geralt before, and now he shrank back before him, uncomfortably aware of how just how strong he was.

'What do you think you're doing, anyway?' Geralt went on. 'Why do I fucking put up with you? Why do you think I've been having these dreams? You come along, chattering about England and how beautiful it is, and how I should go back with you. It's because of you that I keep remembering this!'

Jaskier, through still terrified at the sudden onslaught, gathered up his self-respect. 'That's not fair,' he protested, and his own voice sounded very small and weak after Geralt's shouting, like a child complaining.

'This is your damn fault! And now you're going to tell me that I've got everything wrong? Not bloody likely!'

Geralt turned away. The silence that followed sounded very final. 

'Right,' Jaskier stammered. 'Well, if you don't...' 

Suddenly, he began to get angry in his turn. Geralt had no right to treat him that way. He might be very intimidating and very sexy and very troubled and very interesting, but he had no right to make him feel that he was somehow the cause of all Geralt's problems. He took a deep breath, about to start shouting at Geralt in turn, but then thought better of it. He certainly wasn't going to win a shouting match, and Geralt would probably pay absolutely no heed to anything he said anyway.

Instead, even though it was the middle of the night, Jaskier just got up, picked up his lute and his few belongings, and made his way, by the light of the moon, back to the road. He started walking along it, back the way they had come. They had passed a town some distance from the road, and he thought he could make his way there by morning. He was certainly too angry to sleep, and walking helped take his mind of just how exasperated and cheated he felt.

Walking through most of the night had been a bad idea, and Jaskier felt absolutely awful by the time he reached the town, but he did reach it, rented a room at an inn, and collapsed into a dead sleep for a solid seven hours. When he woke up, he was less angry, but more determined. He bought a map, figured out where he was, and worked out a route back to Calais. He had had enough. He was going back to England.

Despite the fact that he felt absolutely defeated, empty and generally utterly miserable, Jaskier managed to work his way through the towns he found on the map, moving steadily back towards France. Every night, he pushed aside his wretchedness to sing to crowds in inns and taverns, inhabiting briefly a sort of simulacrum of happiness and cheer that felt, fleetingly, almost real. Those were his favourite times, when he could echo his usual carefree self, produce an immaculate forgery of vivacious joy in which he, for a short, precious time, lost himself, buoyed by the cheers and exclamations and applause that his singing aroused. But when he retired to his room for the night, the silence and the emptiness were all the more hollow by contrast. It was as though he had been granted a short period of relief only to have the failure and loss be all the sharper. The sense of loss was undeniable and infuriating. Why should he feel this for a man whom he had known for so brief a time and who had treated him so badly? He tried to tell himself that Geralt had shown himself as callous, rude, inconsiderate, aggressive, and yet... And yet. He felt acutely the ache of something missing, the lack of the warm, golden weight of Geralt by his side. In comparison to this, the fact that he was coming back to England without any solution to the vampire problem seemed insignificant. Jaskier felt so guilty about this that he was drained with it. The lives of everyone at court, possibly everyone in the country, were in deadly peril, and he felt far more devastated by the loss of the companionship of one taciturn, cynical, gloomy, aggressive man, oh, right, not even a man, but whatever the hell Geralt was. Jaskier thought that there must be something seriously wrong with him. He tried to conjure up the faces of all his friends at court, tried to make himself understand what it would mean to have them killed or else turned into one of the monsters he had accidentally glimpsed, but all that felt real to him was the loss of Geralt.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just really enthusiastic about early modern London.

Once Jaskier came to Calais, he was able to go to a bank where his family had funds, and get sufficient money to buy new clothes, get properly clean, and obtain passage on a ship back to Dover. The clerk at the bank was an old acquaintance of his father's, and addressed him benevolently as 'young Master Julian'. His proper name struck him as unfamiliar now. It was a wrench to realise that no one would call him 'Jaskier' any more, the way Geralt used to. Another bit of Geralt lost. Jaskier, no, Julian, set his teeth and told himself to get a grip. He was _not_ going to think about the way his nickname had sounded on Geralt's lips, the deep rumble his voice dipped into on the last syllable, right before the 'r', the slight roll of that final letter...

'Jaskier,' a familiar voice growled. He jumped. For a panicked second, he thought that his imagination had finally completely run away with him and he was hearing things. Then he turned. He was standing on the quay, watching the Dover-bound ship, and there, by his side, was Geralt. He gaped.

'What are you doing here?' he asked.

Geralt gestured at the ship. 'Going to England. Isn't that what you wanted?'

'Did you follow me here?'

'No, I knew you'd make your way here eventually, so I came to Calais and waited here for you.'

Jaskier opened his mouth, but for once didn't know what to say, torn between divine elation at seeing Geralt again and the feeling that he ought to continue being angry. Thankfully, the necessity to speak was removed as the ship had docked and shouts of 'Passengers to Dover! Come aboard! Passengers to Dover!' Geralt swung his swords over his shoulder with that familiar motion and, without looking back at Jaskier, led the way aboard. Jaskier went after him, telling himself that Geralt owed him an apology, and steeling himself to be cold and uncommunicative and offended. This would be much easier if he wasn't so exceptionally happy, no, joyful, delighted, utterly and completely ecstatic, to see Geralt. It's very difficult to be cold and offended instead of dancing with joy. It is also very difficult to be uncommunicative with someone as naturally uncommunicative as Geralt. Would he even notice?

As the ship moved off from the bay, Geralt and Jaskier stood on deck, watching the retreating land. They hadn't spoken in twenty minutes. Jaskier concluded that refusing to talk to Geralt would have no effect whatsoever, since, left to himself, he probably would never speak again and be quite content.

'So,' he said, finally breaking the silence, 'what made you decide to come after all?'

'Vampires,' Geralt answered, 'if they're not stopped, they're a threat to the whole world.'

'Well, very generous of you, I'm sure,' Jaskier's voice dripped with irony, which Geralt ignored.

'Generous, nothing. You better not have been lying when you said I can have anything I want for my help.'

Jaskier remembered that there had been no mention of money when he had set out from England, and that all promises of financial reward were his own invention. This, combined with the motion of the ship, made him feel quite unwell. He did not want to be around when Geralt found out that there might be no remuneration.

'Ah, yes, well,' he stuttered, 'I think you'll have to excuse me, I must go and be seasick.'

* * *  


The truth was that Geralt regretted his words to Jaskier almost as soon as he had spoken them. What he regretted most of all was Jaskier's fear. Jaskier, unlike almost everyone, had never been afraid of him, and now he had ruined that. He had felt Jaskier shrink away, and had been flooded with hot shame and disgust, which quickly turned back to anger, increasing his fury. He had lain awake, listening to Jaskier leaving and had made no move to stop him or apologise. He had been turned to stone by the hollow, sick sensation that lodged in his bones. Everything, the very air, tasted rotten. Partly, Geralt was bewildered because, having told Jaskier his reasons for not returning to England, those very reasons, which had seemed so compelling for over a century, seemed to crumble into insignificance. The betrayal that he had felt had burned so brightly in him at first, that he had not noticed that the fire had long gone out, and all he was left with were a few smouldering sparks. Jaskier's words had thrown that into sharp relief, had made his reasons seem ridiculous, almost childish. Betrayed ideals, the trampling of sacred traditions, all that meant nothing to him now, perhaps had meant nothing to him for a long time, but having just realised it, it was shocking. It was another one of those moments when Geralt's whole world had transmuted; solid ground into quicksand, air into sea. What did matter, desperately, was the tenderness and desire he felt for Jaskier. He didn't really give a damn about the vampires, the whole world could go to the devil for all he cared, the whole world, that is, except for Jaskier.

Geralt determined to go to England and give the assistance that Jaskier asked for. It almost didn't feel like a choice; it was what he had to do, irresistibly compelled by loyalty and desire. Geralt wasn't any good at apologising, but he hoped that Jaskier would understand without words. Geralt wasn't prepared for the rush of excited recognition that hit him when he saw Jaskier standing on the quay at Dover, the sudden hitch in his breath when he knew it was Jaskier by his stance, by the way his hand rested on his hip, even before he saw his face. The lover's recognition. The electric spark in the blood. The stumble of the heart.

'So,' Jaskier said, as they settled into a carriage going towards London, 'do you know what to do about these vampires? Assuming there's anyone left alive in London by the time we get there.'

Jaskier had been speaking coldly and distantly the whole way (when he wasn't busy being ill), none of his usual, comforting chatter. Geralt knew that he hadn't been forgiven. He sighed and shifted. He hated travelling in carriages, which were always close and rattling and generally unpleasant. And being shut in with an unfamiliar, disgruntled Jaskier wasn't helping matters.

'I'll have to see them first,' Geralt told him. 'Determine what sort they are. And they aren't going to go on a killing spree. They need a long-term supply of victims. From what you said, I think they'll try to turn the leading figures, perhaps even the queen and her possible heirs, into their kind, and keep most of the population as a constant source of nourishment.'

'Wonderful, so we're all going to be turned into these creatures' personal cattle herd, is that it?'

'That's their plan, I think. But I doubt they'll succeed.'

'Well, let's hope you're as good as you think you are,' was all Jaskier said, and stared out of the window.

They spent most of the journey in silence, a rare and uncomfortable state of affairs with Jaskier, and which Geralt did not enjoy at all. Being in England was unexpectedly pleasant, however, and he spent a good deal of the journey feeling the uncanny familiarity of the very air, the scents, the colours of the earth and trees, all of which he only now realised he had lacked. But he missed Jaskier's voice and chatter more than he could have believed possible, and the very fact of missing it made him increasingly cross. The entire situation, Geralt considered, was infuriating and untenable. He wanted to either kiss Jaskier or pitch him out of the window. It was difficult to decide which he wanted to do more.

But when they got to London, Geralt was at least for a time distracted from his thoughts. The carriage took them as far as Southwark, near London Bridge. While to Jaskier, stepping into the streets of London was like slipping on a very well-worn and well-loved glove, which fitted perfectly and was reassuringly familiar, to Geralt, the city was utterly new. He had visited it rarely even when he had lived in England, and had indeed probably never been to this part of the city before. On top of this, London had changed greatly in the almost hundred and fifty years since he had seen it. There were more people everywhere than in any other city Geralt had been in, a great number of them young, energetic, and obviously tremendously busy and full of high spirits. Some were running, some striding purposefully, all in a hurry, weaving a complex web of organised chaos. The noise was staggering; people were shouting greetings and farewells to one another, street sellers were calling their wares, the variety of which seemed endless, the hooves of horses and the lowing of cattle driven through the streets added to the cacophony, and on top of it all, there was a sprawling market nearby, where still more wares were sold and shouts reigned. Of the smells it would be best to say nothing, the most pleasant of these probably being rotten vegetables. Jaskier seemed completely unbothered by all of it, only wrinkling his nose a little at the smell. It was a testimony to the heterogeneity and chaos of London that Geralt, in his strange clothes and with his white hair, attracted no attention at all.

By unspoken consent, they had started to walk across London Bridge, to the north side of the river, motivated mostly by the enjoyment of finally being on their feet. Geralt watched the river, almost as busy with an extraordinary variety of boats as the streets were with people. Halfway across the bridge, it occurred to him that he had no idea where he was going, and, after Jaskier had spent so long following him, wasn't really willing to reverse their positions.

'I'd better find somewhere to stay. Know of a good place?' he asked.

Jaskier hesitated. 'Well,' he said, dragging the syllable out slightly in that endearing way he had, 'you could stay with me. I've told you, my father's quite well-off, and he has a house here. There's plenty of room, and no one else in the house except myself. It's not a very fine house, but it would be better than taking lodgings.'

Geralt was profoundly grateful to Jaskier for the suggestion; he did not want the bother of finding lodgings in this now-unfamiliar city and facing awkward questions from strangers, but even more, he was glad to find that Jaskier was willing to invite him to his house. He agreed, and they walked on together.

'The house is a bit of a walk, it's beyond Lincoln's Inn, almost at King's Cross. You know London, don't you?'

'Not this London. It's changed a great deal. I was never here much anyway.'

'Oh, then this is all new to you, or almost. Christ, I am jealous of you, Geralt!'

Geralt raised an eyebrow.

'I mean, walking into London for the first time! It must be fantastic. I know every alley around here, and I love it, but seeing it all for the first time... What do you think? Isn't it magnificent?'

'It smells like shit. Of far too many varieties.'

'You are terrible!' Jaskier exclaimed, then seized Geralt's arm. 'Look, look over there! See that inn? The Sceptre? That's where I fought a duel over a poem. This stupid lout was shouting that William Dunbar was no true poet because he wrote in Scots, and Scots is just bad English. So I said that perhaps people in Scotland think that English is just bad Scots. Then I got up on the table (I wasn't _exactly_ sober) and started reciting Dunbar's _Lament for the Makaris_ , and he threw a rotten orange at me. I couldn't allow that insult to pass unavenged, so I threw an egg at him. Several eggs, actually, the landlady had just brought some in. I need scarcely say that I emerged as the much-lauded victor.'

Jaskier stopped speaking quite abruptly, realising that, under the excitement of finding himself back in London, and unable to contain himself when it came to relating his adventures, he had completely forgotten that he was attempting to be angry at Geralt. And just like that, their quarrel was over. It was a great relief to Jaskier to be able to tell Geralt something about almost every street and building they passed, and a great relief to Geralt to listen to Jaskier going on, seemingly without pause for breath, in his excited, enthusiastic tone.

'Wait,' Jaskier said, stopping short in the middle of the street, 'I absolutely _must_ stop by the Churchyard. I mean St Paul's Churchyard, it's where they sell books and pamphlets and ballad sheets. I have no idea what's been printed in the past couple of _months_!'

'What, now?' Geralt asked. 'Don't you want to get to your nice warm house and bath and bed that I've been hearing so much about?'

'Yes, but this is a matter of life and death. I _must_ know what has been written in my absence. I'm a poet, Geralt, this is what I live for!' He made an expansive gesture, striking at least three people hurrying by, and earning himself several glares.

Geralt shrugged his ascent and they turned slightly out of their way to stop by St Paul's Churchyard, which was not a burial site, but a large market, much of it taken up with shops and stalls selling books and a multitude of other printed matter; folios, music, maps, pamphlets. Jaskier dove into it with gleeful eagerness. Geralt hung back and watched. Jaskier was clearly known to many of the booksellers; they greeted him jovially, demanded to know where he had been, insisted that their shops were on the verge of going out of business without his custom, and pressed recommendations on him. Jaskier looked more enchanting than ever before; he was smiling, unconsciously, utterly in his own element, bandying back and forth with the shopkeepers, trying to interrupt them by outshouting them, gesturing emphatically, his eyes shining. He was opening up like a flower to the sun, every inch of him sending out waves of enthusiasm and happiness. Geralt felt an odd regret that was almost envy; he remembered that Jaskier had expanded for him like that, that his eyes ever sparkled at him in that playful way, but Geralt had been unable to respond, had only pushed him away. He wanted to respond now, but he did not know how. It was as if he and Jaskier spoke different languages, and Geralt could never pick up this flickering, exuberant flow of rapid words, the quick exchanges and ripostes and allusions. He wanted to be able to speak to Jaskier the way these people did, with familiarity, teasing, with little clever swoops of phrase, but that wasn't his way. He supposed that really, he and Jaskier were fundamentally incompatible, such complete opposites could never hope to be friends.

He was so lost in his thoughts that he was surprised to find that Jaskier had come back to him.

'New book of verse by George Chapman,' he announced, showing Geralt a bound volume, 'and a quarto of a new play, _Arden of Faversham_ , which I have not seen.'

Geralt thought that Jaskier was probably simply showing him the purchases out of an excess of enthusiasm, which sort of just overflowed onto whoever happened to be by at that moment, and happened in this instance to be Geralt. So he made a non-committal noise of either acknowledgement or irritation, and demanded if they could be on their way. 

It took a little over half an hour to reach the house, solely tenanted by an old servant whom Jaskier had left as caretaker in his absence. It was a rather small, but well-built and clearly old and sturdy house, warm against wind and cold. The caretaker was very flurried by Jaskier's unannounced return, as there was no cook or maid there in preparation, and was also clearly alarmed by the sight of Geralt. But Jaskier breezily announced, 'Oh, Hasting,' (this was the servant's name), 'don't worry about it, all my fault, I ought to have written. Just get the cook and the usual couple of servants in by tomorrow, we'll get on just fine tonight. This is a friend of mine, he's been living in Germany, he'll be with me for a few days. Get that nice room at the top of the stairs opened up for him, will you?'

Geralt was unexpectedly and almost embarrassingly deeply pleased at Jaskier referring to him as his friend, but then, he reflected, with a stab of disappointment, that was just the kind of thing one said to servants. Why enter into long explanations of who a visitor was? He was disproportionately disappointed by these thoughts. This led him to wonder about names. Now they were back in England, ought he to call Jaskier Julian? His nickname fitted him so well, but it would seem odd if he called him a name in a foreign language, rather than his own Christian name. But in England, 'Jaskier' became a name that only Geralt knew, that would only be used between the two of them. No, Geralt decided, he wasn't going to give up this private pleasure, this simulacrum of intimacy. 

Once inside, Jaskier turned to Geralt.

'I think we had better leave our things and go straight to the palace. We've taken long enough getting here as it is. Do you mind?'

Geralt shrugged. 'It's all the same to me,' he said.

'Right, well, I think Doctor Dee will want to see you as soon as possible, so that we can decide what to do. Now that I think about it, it'll be alright that we're still a mess from the road, we're going to look suitably dramatic coming in covered with dust and dirt from all our long travelling. It'll give the impression that we rushed straight to the palace as soon as we landed in England, that sort of thing goes down very well at court. A messenger from Scotland once arrived for one of the Queen's ladies, and said that his errand was most urgent and he had come without pause from Edinburgh. Well, the lady took one look at his boots, and remarked that since he had had time to change them, and brush his cloak into the bargain, the message could not be so very urgent after all, and the man was kept waiting for a whole day.'

Geralt was unaccountably glad that Jaskier had started chattering to him again, spouting his usual endless little anecdotes. Suppressing a smile, he only said, 'Yes, we certainly wouldn't want to give the impression that we spent a few hours standing in the hall of your house while you told me all about messengers from Scotland and their boots.'

Jaskier rolled his eyes goodnaturedly, and led the way back out into the street.

* * *  


As they walked along the street together, Jaskier was enveloped in the contented glow of the newly-reestablished accord with Geralt. He adored Geralt's gentle teasing, and even found his silence soothing, now that he had ceased finding it slightly intimidating. To Jaskier, it provided a novel contrast to the world of words in which he lived. Even though he loved the badinage, the verbose arguments, the voluminous disquisitions and endless flash of allusion and mockery which made up most of his interactions with his friends and other courtiers, he sometimes thought that the endless flow of words had nothing behind it, that it was just so much froth, bubbling uselessly and emptily, a sort of veil that concealed nothing. Geralt's silences always felt so heavy, burdened with a meaning that Jaskier could not grasp, but very much wanted to. He realised that in Geralt's company, he could slow down, consider what words to say (something he usually never paused to do), allow his thoughts to develop and unfold and alter. He was used to dashing off verses almost haphazardly, then taking them to a tavern to read them to his friends, listening to their criticism, and amending and expanding his work drunkenly. Now he wanted to take time over his poetry, to consider it carefully and write something that would have real thought and meaning behind it. Perhaps even write something that Geralt would like.

The crowds surging on either side and behind them forced Geralt and Jaskier to walk much closer together than they ordinarily would have done, and they were continually getting jostled against one another. Jaskier thought this a wonderful gift that London was giving him today, and relished each time he was shoved against Geralt, his strong, warm body pulsing with tensile strength like a great cat's. A panther, perhaps, was that the animal he was thinking of?

'Jaskier!' the growl of Geralt's voice brought him back to earth. Judging by the impatience of his tone, he had already failed to attract Jaskier's attention at least once.

'What? Sorry, I was thinking of panthers. Are they the big black cats or are those lynxes?'

'Jaskier, where are we going? Where's the palace?'

'Oh, right, you wouldn't know. We're going to the Palace of Whitehall, it's near the Abbey. Westminster Abbey, I mean.'

Geralt gave his little growling hum, which presumably indicated that he knew where that was and was content now that he knew their direction. The way Geralt had called him made Jaskier think about his name. He loved hearing his new nickname growled by Geralt, indeed, he imagined it growled in various tones in various considerably indecent situations. But now that they were in England, Geralt was the only one who would call him 'Jaskier'. The thought absolutely thrilled him. He had a special, private name, only for Geralt to use, only to be shared between the two of them. Names were important, weren't they? Knowing a person's true name was the key to the their heart, or was it their soul? Perhaps Geralt knew his true name. He only hoped that Geralt wouldn't start calling him Julian now.

It was about five o'clock by the time they reached Whitehall, the perfect time, the lull between various activities following dinner and the bustle preceding supper. Jaskier immediately sent a servant to tell Doctor Dee of his arrival, and they were almost at once summoned to the Doctor's laboratory.

As they walked down a long hallway, Lady Urswick passed them, catching Jaskier's eye and winking slyly. He was in the middle of giving her his most discreetly charming smile, when he felt Geralt stiffen beside him. He turned his head to look at him instinctively.

'She's one of them,' Geralt hissed.

'What?' Jaskier cried, too loudly. Geralt shot a glare at him. 'What?' he repeated, in a forced undertone. 'Are you sure?'

'Yes.'

'Fuck, Geralt, I might have... ahem... well, I might be better-acquainted with that lady than I could wish under the circumstances.'

Geralt only rolled his eyes and strode on.

'Geralt,' Jaskier clutched his sleeve. 'Is anything going to happen to me?'

'Did she bite you?'

'No. I mean, I'd be into it, but - '

'Then you're fine,' Geralt said, in a tone that indicated very clearly that he did not want to hear any further details about Jaskier's amorous predilections. 

Jaskier just had time to heave a sigh of relief when they arrived at the door of Doctor Dee's laboratory. 

'Master Panhallick!' Doctor Dee greeted him, bustling forward. 'I am indeed most happy to see you.'

'Doctor, I am sorry for the delay in returning. This is Geralt of Rivia,' he said, trying to nudge Geralt forward a bit more.

'Oh!' Doctor Dee exclaimed, looking up at Geralt with surprise. It was clear that he did not look at all like Dee had imagined; he had probably been envisioning some pious and mild knight, carrying a shield emblazoned with the cross of St George, clad in armour of beaten gold, or something of the sort. 'Well, I am most gratified that you have come...'

'I hear you have a vampire problem,' Geralt said roughly, moving into the room with no regard for ceremony and sitting down at the table, shoving several books to the floor off the chair on which they had been stacked.

'Not so loud, I pray you!' Dee exclaimed, rushing to shut the door. 'This is a matter of the greatest secrecy! Now, sir, do you have any knowledge of these creatures?'

'Yes, luckily, we just passed one of the vampires in the hall, and I saw what sort they are. There are certain signs I can recognise them by, but I doubt they are visible to ordinary humans, which is why they can live undetected amongst you. They are, fortunately, some of the more... uncomplicated creatures of the kind that feed on men's blood. They must sleep in earth taken from their native country in order to keep their strength. Not every day, but often enough. They tend of shun the light of the sun, and are more active at night. All of this makes them vulnerable. They should not be too difficult to dispatch. A wooden stake must be driven through their hearts, their heads cut off, and their bodies sprinkled with holy water.'

'Oh, yes, that sounds perfectly simple!' Jaskier put in.

'It's not very difficult to do during their sleep,' Geralt said imperturbably. 'They must be tracked down to their lairs and disposed of in this way.'

'And can you do this?' Dee asked, eagerly. He was now staring at Geralt with fascination, somewhat belatedly overawed by him.

'Yes, for a price,' Geralt said, with a slight, humourless grin.

Dee was taken aback. The idea of payment had evidently not even entered his head. He had obviously expected Geralt to help out of the goodness of his heart. Jaskier was getting distinctly nervous. If Geralt found out that he had brought him all the way to England under false pretences, he would... well, he didn't actually want to know what Geralt would do. He felt that he ought to attempt to diffuse the situation.

'Well, we can talk about the price later, can't we? It's getting late and - '

'I think we should talk about it now,' Geralt cut across him. 'How much are you willing to pay?'

'I - I really can't say right now, but I'm sure - ' Dee stammered.

Geralt stood up, seeming somehow even taller than usual in the cluttered room. 'Let me know your offer by tomorrow night,' he said. 'And one more thing. I'll need one other person to help me.'

'Oh, I'll help,' Jaskier said, almost before he thought. Of course, he must be the one to help Geralt.

Geralt looked at him for a second, gave one of his ambiguous 'hmm's, and turned to the door. As Jaskier got up to follow him, Doctor Dee seized his arm and spoke into his ear in an anxious hiss.

'Master Panhallick, how much is he expecting? This is a most distressing turn of events, I am not sure where to get the funds!'

'I have no idea, but if you'd like, I'll try to act as a sort of negotiator? Maybe find out how much money he's expecting and try to make a bargain?'

'That would be extremely good of you. To be frank, I did not expect that he would ask for payment, I rather thought... well...'

'I'll see what I can do, Doctor. Good evening to you,' Jaskier said, disengaging himself as courteously as he could, and hurried after Geralt.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And at last, some Shakespeare and some vampires

'Hurry up and finish that,' Jaskier told Geralt the next morning (or rather, afternoon, since they had both slept until almost noon after the journey) as they were eating what could no longer be termed breakfast due to the lateness of the hour. 'We are going to see a play.'

Geralt raised an eyebrow at him. He was looking much cleaner than Jaskier had yet seen him, and with his hair actually somewhat brushed. It felt almost uncanny, after being accustomed to a very dirty and tangle-haired Geralt.

'Oh, come on, Geralt! You're not going to refuse to see a play! It's one of the finest entertainments London has to offer!'

'Very well,' Geralt said, much to Jaskier's surprise. He had not expected such a quick acquiescence. 'What's the play?'

'It's by a friend of mine, young Will Shakespeare. He's actually been writing a sequence of history plays about the fifteenth century, should interest you, since you've actually been there! Should interest Will to talk to you... But anyways, this isn't one of them, it's a new play of his called _The Taming of the Shrew_.

Geralt looked surprisingly contented and well-rested, and actually interested in their surroundings. He had even, on the previous night, asked Jaskier about areas and buildings that were new to him. Jaskier took this as proof that London could work miracles. But after all, it would take someone utterly devoid of curiosity not to be interested in London. The problem of payment for the vampire disposal would have weighed heavily on Jaskier's mind, had he possessed a sense of responsibility, but, as it was, he simply shelved the issue. He thought that it would be best to distract and entertain Geralt in some way, thus getting him in a good mood, and then discuss payment. And he might as well distract and entertain himself along the way.

They walked back the way they had come the previous day, crossing again to the south side of the Thames to reach The Rose playhouse. Plays were staged in the middle of the day or in the early afternoon, in order to have sufficient light. Jaskier got them places on the balcony above the pit, where the better-off sort congregated, out of reach of the shoving, spitting and general seething chaos of the pit, though unfortunately, not of its smell.

As the play started, Geralt frowned in puzzlement.

'Why are the women being played by boys?' he asked Jaskier. 'Is this some kind of joke?'

'Who else should they be played by? It would be indecent for women to be seen on the public stage like that.'

Geralt raised a sceptical eyebrow. 'Right, because having young boys flouncing about in women's clothes is very much better,' he remarked sarcastically. 

Jaskier had not thought of it like that before, but he wasn't about to argue the point, and settled in to enjoy the play. He was quite worried that Geralt wouldn't like it and make some withering comment at the end, but he seemed interested (at least that was what Jaskier had to assume from the lack of complaints), and he himself thought it extremely funny.

'Ah, one of Will's best thus far,' he said, once the play was over, still chuckling. 'What did you think?'

'Hmm,' Geralt said, a slightly more enthusiastic 'hm' that usual. 'I liked Katherina when she was shouting at Petruchio best. Ending was a bit of a letdown.'

They were moving through the departing crowd at this point, and just then, overheard a fragment of conversation between two men, making very lewd and explicit comments about 'Bianca', or the boy who played her.

'This whole boys-playing-women thing seems to get some men quite... confused,' Geralt commented.

'How do you mean?' Jaskier asked. This really seemed to be the longest and most engaged participation in a conversation that he had gotten out of Geralt in a while.

'If you're fucking a man, wouldn't you want to know you were with a man, not with a man pretending to be a woman?'

Jaskier nearly choked with shock. Geralt said it perfectly casually, like this was a completely normal thing to discuss. All the more surprising since Geralt was usually very reticent on sexual matters. Or was he? Perhaps he was just reticent on _all_ matters.

'Uh, maybe not everyone is as honest with themselves as you are?' Jaskier offered. Geralt gave a dubious 'hm', and walked on. Jaskier felt irresistibly (though probably unwisely, he told himself) compelled to pursue the subject.

'So,' he said, trying to sound as casual as Geralt did, 'is that something you do often?'

'What?'

'Fuck other men?' Jaskier said, feeling himself blushing mortifyingly.

Geralt shrugged. 'Why not?' he said.

Oh, Jaskier thought, wonderful. Geralt suddenly, out of absolutely nowhere, in the middle of a crowded street, decides to be offhandedly informative about his sex life. Would surprises never cease with this man? But Jaskier wasn't one to let so interesting a subject drop, so as long as Geralt was willing to respond, he was going to pursue it. He wished they were somewhere a bit more private, but the noise lapping meaninglessly all about them was such that it was highly unlikely they would be overheard.

'Well, the church takes a dim view of that kind of thing,' he said, answering Geralt's rhetorical question.

'The church takes a dim view of me in general,' Geralt said.

'There are laws against it,' Jaskier pointed out.

Geralt shot him a slightly mocking look. 'And do these laws regulate _your_ behaviour?'

Jaskier felt a flash of panic and realised he had allowed this conversation to get too far. For all that he thought of himself as the master of conversation and of Geralt as a reluctant talker at best, Geralt had just managed to talk him into a very awkward situation. If he discussed his own adventures with other men frankly, Geralt might guess how he felt about him. He had already guessed a disconcertingly large amount. But if he disavowed his interest in men, he would be telling a bare-faced lie, and, even worse, he might seem as if he was judging Geralt. He floundered.

'What - what does this have to do with _me_?' Jaskier stammered, feeling himself going even redder.

Geralt stopped and laughed. 'Do you really think you're subtle about it? You have wandering eyes, Jaskier, I can see the way you eye up women _and_ men. Now stop pretending you don't know what I'm talking about and let's go. We have work to do.'

Jaskier stared after him for a few stunned seconds before hurrying to catch up. He was breathing fast with terror at the possibility that Geralt might have figured out what Jaskier felt about him, as well as in surprise at this conversation. He really had not expected Geralt to show any interest in other men, but then Geralt didn't actually make a habit of showing interest in general. Jaskier supposed he had simply assumed... well, a lot of things. Then his mind caught up with what Geralt had just said, the meaning of the last sentence having gotten tangled up in his thoughts about the preceding conversation.

'What work, Geralt?' he asked, having to run a little to reach Geralt's side again.

'The vampires, what else? We need to go to the palace and I'll let you know which are vampires, so you can put names to them. Then we can start tracking them down to where they sleep by day.'

'But what about the money? Aren't you going to wait for Doctor Dee's offer?'

Geralt gave a bark of ironic laughter. 'Jaskier, do you think I'm oblivious, or are you again under the delusion that you're subtle? I could tell that man had no idea of needing to pay me and had no idea how much to give, if he has anything to give. I think we can shelve the money question for a while. Hopefully he'll find something by the time the job is done.'

'So, you're, what? Going to do this out of the goodness of your heart?' Jaskier teased, unspeakably relieved that Geralt was taking the whole payment question so lightly.

'I've already come all the way here, what am I going to do, just leave now? Amateur dramatics are your department. Besides, I told you, these creatures, though they might be fairly easy to dispatch, can easily get out of control and threaten the whole world. Between not getting paid and living in a world that has become a vampire slave state, I think I prefer not getting paid.'

'Right, well, since I'm your intrepid helper here, what do you need me to do?'

'I told you, first you'll help me identify the vampires among the courtiers. Then when the time comes to destroy them, I need you to bring the holy water. I can't touch it.'

'Very well, then let us heroically take our road... past this revolting gutter as fast as possible, and to the palace, where we shall courageously confront our enemies - '

Geralt rolled his eyes.

* * *

Geralt and Jaskier spent the evening skulking in various dark recesses of the halls, gardens and chambers of the court, from where they could best observe the people passing to and fro. This was a very unfamiliar role for Jaskier, who longed to be in the midst of the lights and the talk, and had to keep restraining himself from dashing forward to speak to his friends and acquaintances. 

'It's all very well for you,' he hissed to Geralt, 'you _like_ lurking in the shadows, but I'm a creature of the light, I need attention to flourish - '

'You're not here to flourish,' Geralt managed to snarl (somehow) in a whisper. 'You're here to tell me who these people are. _Her_ right there, she's another one, who is she?'

'The Viscountess of Culross,' Jaskier said, writing yet another name down. He already has a list of about ten others.

As the night advanced, Geralt spotted fewer and fewer vampires, and eventually decided to call it a day. They had enough to be getting on with anyways; fifteen people in all thus far.

They went back to Jaskier's house, where, dismissing the servants, they settled at the dining room table to plot their campaign, with a good fire, good food freshly prepared by the excellent cook, and good wine brought up from the cellar. This was agreeably both companionable and exciting, and Jaskier felt that now at last they were having a real adventure. He let himself luxuriate in the romance of the occasion; the plotting against supernatural enemies together, with the darkness of the night pressing in at the window, enclosed in the glow of the fire and the candles on the table, the light drawing a web of conspiracy and trust around the two of them. To his own surprise, Jaskier found that he was able to contribute a great deal to their plans. He had expected Geralt to just tell him what to do, but it turned out that many practicalities had to be discussed and provided for, many issues for which Jaskier was able to suggest inventive solutions.

The plan was approximately this. They decided to start with the very first name on the list, John Howard, the Viscount Berwick, whom Jaskier had seen on that fateful day when he had first encountered the vampires. Berwick kept an enormous household, and Jaskier, dressed as a servant, would have no trouble at all in gaining entrance and stealing about the house. He would then find where the Viscount slept during the day, let Geralt into the house by some back door and the two of them would dispatch the vampire as quietly as possible. Jaskier had his worries about how quiet that would prove to be, but there seemed to be no other way to go about it; the vampire had to be destroyed while he slept, otherwise he could easily overpower them. Jaskier doubted anything could overcome Geralt, but Geralt told him that vampires were supernaturally strong, and he did not fancy his chances in a pitched battle with one, even though getting bitten by one would probably not affect Geralt as it would an ordinary human.

Jaskier was reluctant to have the evening end; it had been one of the best of his life. Sitting next to the fire, drinking and plotting, pulse mounting agreeably with the promise of adventure and with Geralt's closeness, he wanted to stay in this moment forever. He would write a sonnet about it, he thought, preserve it perfectly in verse like an insect in amber, so that he could always revisit it in remembrance. But it would never feel so vivid again; the scent of the burning logs, the sour-sweetness of the wine spreading in ripples of warmth through him, the sound of Geralt's voice, sending vibrations through him that echoed the ripples of the wine, the glow of Geralt's eyes, turned to molten gold in the dimness, the delicious consciousness of closeness and secrecy, the immediacy of all that would be gone, leaving only a shadow. He wanted to make this time last, to spin the enchanted gossamer thread of it out to one more minute, one more second, before he had to let it go. When their plans had been thoroughly discussed, Geralt leaned back in his chair, looking out into the middle distance with a contemplative, almost sad look, as though he too did not want the consultation to end. For a few minutes, they sat together in silence. It felt soft and strange, and Jaskier realised that it felt strange because he had never, as far as he could remember, sat still with another person without talking ceaselessly. It felt... so odd and so pleasant.

But then Geralt stood up, pushing back his chair with a creak across the floor, breaking the stillness. 'I'm going to bed,' he said, 'we have a long day tomorrow.'

'Oh, yes, good night, Geralt,' Jaskier said, feeling something almost like grief at the end of the night and at Geralt's departure. Everything seemed smaller, less vivid in his wake. Jaskier sighed and went up to his own bed. As he drifted off to sleep, he thought sadly that with every step they came closer to success, they also came closer to the day when Geralt would leave. They were plotting the end of the vampires, but they were also plotting the end of their association, plotting the breaking of Jaskier's heart.

* * *

The next day, Jaskier had very little trouble getting into the Howard household, pretending to be a baker sent to consult with the cook, and let through at a wink to one of the maids. After being directed to the kitchen, Jaskier instead made his way through to the hall. It was even easier than he had anticipated; no one really looked at a servant, he became part of the furniture, and the other servants, seeing an unfamiliar face and very busy with their tasks, assumed that he was there for a specific purpose and asked no questions. The household was so large that if there was someone who knew how everything functioned and who everyone was, Jaskier never saw them. Instead, he found the Viscount, still at breakfast in the morning room. Not that he was actually eating. Jaskier thought with a shudder of the sort of nourishment the man really required.

Jaskier spent several hours sneaking about and hiding in the shadows, contriving to keep the Viscount in his sights as much as possible. Very late in the morning, he was rewarded by seeing him pass into a private room, and, slipping in soundlessly at the door and hiding behind a convenient curtain, he saw Howard push aside a tapestry to reveal a concealed door, which he opened with a key and vanished down what seemed to be a stairway. Jaskier gave him about half an hour, and when he still hadn't emerged, he crept across the chamber and lifted the tapestry. Blessing his association with Kit Marlowe, through which he had learned all sorts of clever tricks that Kit had picked up in many shady places throughout his dubious career, he deftly picked the lock with a pin. Beyond the door, he could see only the top of a stair leading down, but the smell that arose from that passage was enough to confirm his guess that this was exactly the place he was looking for. It smelled of something very like rotten meat and damp, decaying earth. Choking slightly, Jaskier closed the door softly and made his way as fast as he could out of the chamber and to a back entrance that opened onto a small, unsavoury street, dim even in the clear light of day. Wedging the door open discreetly, he walked a little way down the street. He discovered Geralt leaning in one of the almost completely dark doorways, from which he emerged at his approach.

'I think I've found it,' Jaskier said, without preamble, 'let's go, before they find the door I've left open.'

Wordlessly, Geralt followed him. He was wrapped in a black cloak, and Jaskier knew that he was keeping his silver sword concealed beneath it. This way, Geralt attracted almost no attention on the street, but once inside the house, it would be different. Jaskier could only pray that he could navigate his way through deserted passages, where they would not encounter any of the servants. They would have to just trust to luck.

Luck seemed to be on their side. Moving ahead and keeping a careful lookout, Jaskier was able to make sure that every passage before them was clear, and piloted them back to the Viscount's chambers. Once inside, Geralt pushed a heavy chest across the floor to barricade the door against any possible intrusion. Since they had entered the house, they had not spoken at all. Yet in their silence, they moved with what felt like perfect accord. Jaskier was constantly aware of Geralt's movements and matched himself to them, making sure the two of them moved together, twinned, one another's shadows. Their physical tension seemed to connect them by some force that made them almost able to read one another's thoughts, each alert to the slightest motion or quiver of the other. It did not surprise Jaskier that Geralt could read him effortlessly, but it surprised him that he was able to do the same, his whole body crackling with the heightened awareness of Geralt, until he could practically feel what he was thinking and feeling, every movement he made, every impulse that coursed through him. It was thrilling, his senses seemed to be working harder than ever before in his life, driven up to a frenetic pitch. 

Jaskier pushed aside the tapestry and opened the concealed door. Geralt frowned.

'It isn't locked?'

'It was. I picked the lock.'

Geralt looked at him in impressed surprise, which sent a thrill of pride through Jaskier. That look was worth more than the most enthusiastic praise he had ever received.

'See? Not useless after all,' he whispered to Geralt.

'Never said you were,' Geralt answered shortly.

'Where are we going to get lights?'

'No need, I can see.'

'Yes, but I can't.'

For answer, Geralt took his hand, but not roughly, as Jaskier would have expected. His fingers closed over Jaskier's with a firm gentleness, and they began to descend the stairs. At first, there was the little light filtering down from the room above them, but it faded to nothing quickly, and the darkness pressed down on Jaskier's eyes. He could see nothing and tried to move as close to Geralt as possible. The blackness became a physical presence, a veil drawn over his eyes and nose and mouth, so that it was difficult to breathe. Only Geralt's warm hand remained as a link to the real world, guiding him with a firmness that held panic at bay. Once, he stumbled, and Geralt easily caught him with an arm around his shoulders, so that he wound up falling against Geralt's side. He would have preferred to just cling to him and seek protection from the awful darkness, but he forced himself to go on. Towards the bottom of the stair, some slight, sickly light became visible. In the underground chamber into which they emerged, there was a small, very grimy window, which let in the meagre light. It was a drained, dead light, which seemed to have no association with daylight, but it was enough to see by. They were in a sort of vault, very much like a sepulchre, with very little in it except a large stone coffin-like object.

'Is this the place?' Jaskier whispered.

'Yes,' Geralt said, 'the vampire should in in there,' and he nodded towards the stone coffin.

Calmly, Geralt put down the bundle he had been carrying, and opened it. Inside were several sharpened wooden stakes and a silver dagger. Geralt took one of the stakes and unsheathed his sword. Jaskier, without a word of instruction, picked up the dagger. He knew, with that new wordless knowledge between them, that Geralt had brought it for him, to defend himself if anything should go wrong. Holding the sword in one hand, and the stake in the other, Geralt turned towards the coffin. It didn't occur to Jaskier to say 'be careful' or 'good luck' or anything that he might have said normally. He just sent his wishes for his safety and victory after Geralt, and somehow knew that Geralt felt it, or in his excitement, imagined that he did.

Geralt walked up to the coffin and, setting the heel of his boot against the edge of the lid, kicked it open with one powerful movement. The cover crashed to the floor with a tremendous, hollow sound. There was a screech that could not have been made by a human, quickly cut off with a dreadful rattle, as Geralt drove the stake into the vampire's heart before it had the chance to attack. Jaskier moved forward to see blood gushing out of the writhing form of the monster, and he turned away faster than he had come. He heard the sword sweep through the air with a dull roar as Geralt brought it down to cut off the vampire's head. Despite his horror and his twisting stomach, Jaskier, obeying some instinct that was at the same time foreign to him, pulled out the vinaigrette filled with holy water, and flung it over the creature's body. Geralt stood back, wiping the blood off his face with the heel of his hand. 

For a few moments, they stood still, panting and staring at the coffin. The strange, tense connection between the two of them was abruptly gone. With the removal of the danger, that coiled, pulsating tautness that had united them ceased. Jaskier felt strangely empty and bereft without it. And now that it had vanished so absolutely, Jaskier doubted it had been there at all, perhaps that uncanny connection had been merely a phantom generated by his overstrained nerves and overexcited imagination. He was irresistibly compelled to make some throwaway comment to diffuse the odd sensations swirling in the air.

'Well, I did tell you we make a fantastic team,' he remarked.

'Let's go,' was all Geralt said, sheathing his sword and turning to leave.

* * *

That evening, Geralt did something he had been wanting to for several days now; he bought a volume of Jaskier's poem, the one he had mentioned to him on their first meeting and on numerous occasions after, _Phoebe, Queen of the Summer Skies_. The bookseller also informed him that he had a quarto to Jaskier's sonnets, so Geralt bought those too. He had the sense of being ridiculously, even humiliatingly furtive, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to just ask Jaskier to give him his poetry to read. He would be too infuriatingly annoying and perhaps gloat over the fact that Geralt asked for it. Better to just buy it honestly to satisfy his curiosity, rather than have to put up with however Jaskier would take on about it.

With the frustrating feeling of guilt which he could not shake, Geralt began to read Jaskier's epic poem. Geralt did not read very much as a rule, but he had read enough and heard enough songs and poems being read aloud to be able to tell that this was very weak stuff. It was shamelessly overdramatic, mock-archaic, inflated, framed in language so high and stilted that the mind reeled a bit. But it was also so lovably, touchingly _Jaskier_ , with all his little artifices and self-consciously hyperbolic expressions. Geralt found himself hearing it in his head in Jaskier's voice, with his intonations, his playful smiles. The poem had its faults, in fact, it was mostly faults, but it was the same faults that Jaskier himself had, and Geralt found this extremely endearing. However, he put the poem aside after a few pages and leafed through the sonnets instead. They certainly had more artistic merit. The shorter length and the constraints of form did not allow for the extravagant flourishes and absurd conceits which dominated the epic poem, and instead, these verses showed a precision of language and a rich imaginative world which was much more engaging and touching. There was one sonnet in particular that captured Geralt's attention, about the movement of the tides and the moon and the waves in a dance that the best efforts of mathematicians and astronomers failed to capture, because their charts could never give us the splendour of the actual events, and likening this to the absurdity and arbitrariness of falling in love. Geralt reread the poem more than once, reflecting that perhaps, though Jaskier was very young, and seen so much less of the world than Geralt had, he could grasp and express things about life that Geralt never could, but which he had always wanted to, without knowing it. There was a strange constriction in his chest, a velvety heaviness in his throat as he read it yet again, and he quickly turned the page. But the words of the poem stayed with him, and haunted his dreams, like the tides haunted the moon, like the waves haunted the land. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and FINALLY, the reason for the M rating ;)

Destroying vampires, it turned out, was much of a muchness, and the novelty of watching them getting stabbed with a wooden stake quickly wore off, becoming yet another thing that Jaskier would rather not do, especially since with every vampire eliminated, the departure of Geralt from his life drew ever closer. Geralt dispatched the creatures with a brutal and unvaried efficiency, and everything went off without a hitch in the next seven cases. It took them a little over two weeks to work down the list to Lord Summerville, the Earl of Marchester. He lived in a particularly extravagant mansion, and the chamber which he occupied during his daytime hibernation was actually a proper ancestral crypt, filled with the already numerous monuments to a long line of ancestors, and spread over several rooms.

The problem with this was that there was no way of knowing which tomb in Earl was in. They were forced to light a torch (since even Geralt's supernatural eyesight was not perfect in the darkness) and go around looking for signs of recent disturbance, taking care not to make the slightest noise that could alert the vampire to their presence. Unfortunately, Jaskier had stumbled at the entrance to the crypt, sending echoes ricocheting off the damp walls, but there seemed to be no consequence to this mishap. After several minutes of examining the tombs, Jaskier saw Geralt wave to attract his attention and beckon him over. He had found a tomb that showed clear signs of having been recently opened. With his usual methodical efficiency, Geralt put the torch in a bracket on the wall, drew out the wooden stake and unsheathed his sword, then threw open the lid of the tomb.

It was empty.

'Fuck!' Geralt hissed, 'it's in here with us!'

Jaskier's heart was in his mouth. They were in a very dark, many-roomed, labyrinthine crypt, with a monster on the loose somewhere in the shadows. Geralt stood still, clearly listening for any sound that would give them a clue to where the vampire was. Then he gestured for Jaskier to come closer to the wall, away from the light of the torch. Jaskier understood his plan; he wanted to stay in the same room and trick the vampire into thinking that they had gone elsewhere to look for it. As Jaskier joined him by the wall, Geralt nodded at a very large tomb with a two-tiered monument over it, tall enough to conceal them if they could get behind it. Cautiously, they moved towards it, keeping close to the wall.

Just then, there was a furtive rustle, and Jaskier knew that the vampire was coming back into the room they were in. They were still several yards away from the tomb. His entire being seemed suspended in fluttering uncertainty; did he dare run for the shelter of the tomb, or stay where he was? This would not be his decision had it not been for the fact that Geralt was behind him. Inopportunely and instinctively, Jaskier felt that this situation was distinctly unfair; it was _Geralt's_ job to make decisions, not his. What was he supposed to do? Just a step or two behind him, there was a passage leading into one of the other chambers. As Jaskier was still torn by competing impulses in an agony of indecision, he suddenly felt Geralt seize him by the arm and push him bodily into the passage, following him immediately. They stood there, close to the entrance of the passage, not daring to move back out into the lighted chamber and not wanting to abandon themselves to the darkness of the next.

The passage was very, very narrow, and they were pressed very, very close. Jaskier could feel (but not hear) Geralt's breath, coming in counterpoint to his own, feel his ribs moving, even feel the vibration of his heartbeat, fast with tension. Or was that his own heart? He wasn't sure. He had heard somewhere that when two people make love and their hearts beat in time, it meant that they belonged together. Was his heart beating in time with Geralt's? This was the very last place in the world to be thinking about love, let alone making love, and yet there Jaskier was, thinking it anyways. 

He looked at Geralt. He was clearly listening for sounds from the chamber they had left. It suddenly occurred to Jaskier that it was very possible that they were going to die. Perhaps these were the last moments they had on earth, the very, very last. This, here, in this dark, damp, horrible crypt, and after that, well, whatever was after that, apparently he wouldn't be meeting Geralt in the afterlife. No nice chats in heaven. It was all going to be over, forever, and there was so much that he had never said. His scruples about what Geralt would think, about the possibility of Geralt rejecting him, seemed, in the light of death, completely stupid. He had had so much time with Geralt, so much time in the sweet light of day, under the silver light of stars and moon, in the free, fresh air, to tell him how he felt, and he never did. And now perhaps all he had left were seconds in a stifling crypt stinking of decay. If there was one thing that Jaskier was certainly not going to do, it was let an opportunity, any opportunity, no matter how bad and inappropriate to the surroundings, get away from him.

'Geralt,' he breathed. Christ, there was even a sort of comfort in saying his name.

'Not now,' Geralt hissed.

'I have to tell you something, it's very important.'

'Stop talking.'

Well, Jaskier thought, he didn't actually need words to say it, did he? By the distant light of the torch in the next room, he could see Geralt clearly enough. He was looking at Jaskier, but his expression was unreadable. Jaskier took a deep breath of the putrid air, and put one hand on Geralt's shoulder, then moved forward the few centimetres that divided them and, stretching his neck slightly due to their height difference, kissed Geralt. His mouth was slightly open, and his lips parted under Jaskier's, but he did not really respond to the pressure. There was a second during which nothing happened, no response from Geralt, no more effort from Jaskier. They were just there, still, with a slight flutter of breath between them. Then, with a vertiginous suddenness, Jaskier found himself shoved against the wall behind him. For a split second, an absolutely terrible split second, he thought Geralt had pushed him off. But instead, there was the warm, delicious weight of Geralt's body pushing against him, and the only reason his head had not collided painfully with the wall behind him was that Geralt had his hand clenched in his hair. His other arm was laid across Jaskier's chest, almost at his throat, and Geralt was kissing him in a way he had never been kissed before. It was wild and desperate, fuelled by the danger that sped their hearts and made their blood rush headily, and Jaskier answered Geralt's fierce attack with everything he had, struggling for the best angle in a bruising crush of lips, a slide of tongues. In contrast to Geralt pressing him steadfastly against the wall, Jaskier was clutching at him messily; seeking for something to hold on to, for flesh to dig his fingers into, and finding them slipping on armour instead, finally tangling one hand deep in Geralt's rough, thick hair. He pulled at it, and felt rather than heard Geralt groan into his mouth. He filed that information away for later use, insofar as he was currently capable to mental activity.

Geralt tasted foreign, he felt foreign, dizzyingly so. He tasted of something wild and uncanny, not what a mouth should taste of, a taste like the smell of pine was the only way Jaskier could describe it, yet also sweet like the breath of animals is sweet and pure. The main message the taste sent to Jaskier was 'not human', and he found this indescribably desirable. He could feel the power in Geralt's body all against his own, the muscles steely, immovable. He blazed with hunger to feel him _everywhere_ , feel every inch of skin. Then Geralt slowed, and ended the kiss by licking into Jaskier's mouth, languorously, obscenely, tongue curling along the roof of his mouth and behind his teeth before drawing away. Jaskier could see the flash of white teeth, Geralt's upper lip curled upwards in a snarl or smirk of lust, a wolf raising its hackles at the scent of prey. It made Jaskier shudder with desire and a sort of excited, sick fear.

They had been clinched in a mute struggle of passion, but they could not have been utterly noiseless. Surely the scuffling and rustling would have drawn the vampire, as Jaskier would have realised if he had been in a condition to realise anything. He had forgotten about the monster and where they were and everything on earth except Geralt. But he caught the flicker of a extraneous shadow with the tail of his eye, and he was immediately back to reality, on the alert. Not nearly on the alert enough, however. The vampire leapt at Geralt, who was closest to the entrance of the passage, knocking him to the floor at Jaskier's feet, a fury of fangs and claws. Jaskier acted on what felt like pure instinct; he drew the silver dagger he was carrying and plunged it into the back of the vampire's neck. The creature shrieked at the touch of silver, and blood gushed over Jaskier's hand. Driven forward by pure desperation, he had no time to feel frightened or disgusted, but pulled the dagger out and stabbed the vampire again. This gave Geralt the opportunity to kick and shove it off himself, and, seizing the wooden stake that he was still carrying, he drove it into the vampire's heart. They both staggered out of the narrow passage, which was now almost swimming with blood, and Geralt drew his sword and sliced off the monster's head. They stood, staring down at the thing shrivelling before their eyes on the floor, then at one another. They were both covered in blood and dirt. It was very quiet.

'Throw the holy water over it and let's go,' was all Geralt said, turning away.

* * *

They said nothing all the way back to Jaskier's house. They had managed to get the worst of the blood off their faces, and wrapped themselves up in cloaks before setting out to walk away from the late Earl's mansion. Jaskier wanted to talk, everything inside him almost throbbed to talk, but he was terrified of Geralt's silence and what it might mean. Had that kiss just been some aberration fuelled by danger and tension? Geralt was so damned hard to read; from the fixed look of his inscrutable face, nothing might have happened at all. He didn't so much as look at Jaskier the entire way to the house.

Once they were inside, Jaskier said, 'I need a bath, I imagine you do too, I'll get the servants to bring up some water.'

'Jaskier.' Christ, that growl, that impossibly deep, animal sound. 

'Yes?'

Geralt was looking at him with heavy, shadowed eyes. 'You started telling me something in that crypt. Are you going to finish what you were saying?'

Jaskier's breath caught painfully, deliciously in his lungs. Sparks of anticipation shot through him. He couldn't help smiling. 'I thought you hated it when I talk too much. You're always telling me to shut up.'

'I think you were speaking exceptionally eloquently and very much to the point back there.'

'Oh, well, in that case, shall I finish telling you up in my room?'

Jaskier had no memory of getting up the stairs and into his room, all he could think of was getting the door closed and bolted behind them and the big canopied bed. But when he slammed the bolt to and turned around to look at Geralt, he was suddenly lost. They stood opposite each other, with several feet of floor between them, a distance that seemed endless. He wanted to rush forward, but somehow Geralt looked so forbidding and forbidden, so beautiful and so terrifyingly different from anyone he had ever known. Slowly, Jaskier moved forward. It felt like the bravest thing he had ever done. But then Geralt was moving towards him, three loping strides and he was kissing Jaskier again, again that ferocity, the hint of predatory teeth against the pulp of his lip, the hard clutch of a hand on the back of his neck. Then slowing, smouldering like a subsiding fire, the luscious licks of a clever tongue. Jaskier moaned, startling himself.

'How do you want it?' Geralt asked, and pressed against him, that voice was throbbing in Jaskier's bones.

'Rough, gentle, slow, fast, anything, _everything_ ,' Jaskier gasped. He was fumbling at Geralt's leather armour, but uselessly, since he didn't know how it fastened. Geralt moved away for long enough to undo it, throwing each piece to the floor and shoving it away. Immediately, Jaskier slid eager hands under his shirt, against so much warm flesh, which he wanted to see at once and cover in kisses as soon as possible. Geralt was more than willing to pull off the bloodstained shirt, as Jaskier began tugging off his own filthy clothes, dropping them to the floor. Jaskier felt as if every inch of bared skin was singing with need for Geralt's touch, to feel Geralt against him, touching him, pressing him down in the bed... Geralt seemed about to do just that, kissing Jaskier with breathtaking greed, bearing him down towards the bed, and Jaskier could feel that he was as eager as he was himself. The evidence of Geralt's desire sent a new thrill through him (besides the physical one), the knowledge that Geralt wanted him made him glow with happiness and pride. 

'Wait, wait,' Jaskier panted, as Geralt seemed about to push him down on the bed.

'What?' Geralt growled, sounding jaded at being halted.

'Just let me touch you, let me look at you, oh God,' Jaskier breathed, leaning his forehead against Geralt's shoulder, just because he _could_ , letting his hands memorise he hard muscles of his chest, the texture of his skin, silky and slick, dusted with hair. 'Do you know how fucking beautiful you are? Fuck, Geralt, I'm going to spend the rest of my life finding the right words for you.'

'Do you need words for everything?' Geralt asked, his voice soft now, and Jaskier looked up at him.

With a fantastic tenderness, he brushed his lips against Jaskier's, a touch like a butterfly's wing, then brushed his eyes the same way, breath skimming over Jaskier's closed lids. With one finger, Geralt traced his eyelashes, ruffling them, then his touch ghosted across Jaskier's neck, down his chest, barely touching, warmth and comfort radiating from his hands. It took Jaskier a few seconds to understand what Geralt was doing; he was telling Jaskier how beautiful he was in turn, describing in mute touches what he saw and felt, in wordless stanzas of desire. Jaskier basked in the glow of Geralt's attention, his skin blazing in points and lines of fire wherever Geralt touched or wherever his eyes rested. The strong, calloused hands were infinitely gentle against him, making him ache, making him whine for more. Geralt's careful, slow caresses were both too much and not enough, overwhelming in some deep and unsettling way, loaded with emotion, and right now Jaskier wanted brutal, physical satisfaction. He wanted Geralt to handle him with the ruthless efficiency he did everything. Every time he had seen Geralt touch anything, he had wanted to be the one under those capable hands, manipulated, controlled, taken over. He surged forward and kissed Geralt's neck, bent his own to scrape his teeth over Geralt's collarbone.

It seemed that Geralt understood just what he wanted. In a flash, Jaskier found himself on the bed, with Geralt's weight pushing him down, making breathing pleasurably difficult. The contact of naked skin both satisfied and increased his hunger as he drowned in delicious new texture. Roughly, Geralt licked up his neck, breath hot against his skin. Geralt's scent was in Jaskier's mouth, driving his lust to fever pitch.

Jaskier was planning to tell Geralt exactly what he wanted, but it seemed that Geralt knew already, could read him effortlessly and had no need of words. Jaskier knew well how good Geralt was at all physical tasks, and it came as no surprise that he knew exactly what he was doing and the best ways to do it when it came to sex. Jaskier just gave himself up to the pleasure of being handled by those expert hands, in which he became like his own lute, an instrument that cried out for the touch of the right fingers to call forth sounds that no one else could, an instrument that only Geralt knew how to play so perfectly. Geralt soon had him on his hands and knees, coaxing at first, kissing the back of Jaskier's neck, then rough again, bestial, as Jaskier screamed at him for more, harder. He wasn't sure that physically he wanted it that rough, but urged Geralt on because what he wanted was to feel Geralt's strength break against him, maybe even feel him lose some part of his unshakeable control. He was thrilled when Geralt's breathing turned to audible panting, catching harshly in his throat, when he heard half-snarls of pleasure that reverberated through him, when he felt both of their bodies become slick with sweat. Probably his favourite moment (if he had to pick one) was when Geralt knocked him off-balance, so that he fell forward onto his elbows and, without stopping, Geralt steadied him with one hand on his chest, then slid it lower, moving on him with a brutal rhythm. Jaskier had two complaints: first, he couldn't see Geralt's face, and second, this didn't last nearly long enough, but that was his own fault. In a regrettably short time, he reached his peak, gasping and bucking under Geralt, convulsing and sending Geralt over the edge with him with a harsh cry. Perhaps it was a good thing he couldn't see Geralt's face, or this would have happened even sooner. They collapsed, and probably that was Jaskier's second-favourite moment; the delirious, post-orgasmic tumble into the sheets, breathless and tangled. 

After a few seconds, Geralt rolled away from where he was threatening to crush Jaskier's shoulder, and lay on his back by his side. Instinctively, Jaskier edged closer to him, to his magnetic warmth. Geralt's eyes were closed, but he opened them to look down at Jaskier with a fond smile, as he laid his head on Geralt's still-heaving chest. That smile, without the veneer of irony or scorn, unguarded and blissful, was the very expression that Jaskier had longed to see on Geralt's face ever since that first day when he set eyes on him in that tavern in Neuburg. And the golden eyes looked so soft, warmed through.

'That was... phenomenal. Outstanding. Fantastic. What do you think?'

Geralt rolled his eyes. 'Are we really going to have to have an in-depth discussion and assessment every time we fuck?' he asked, with more than a hint of teasing in his tone. Then he laughed. 'The first thing you asked me was what I thought of your performance. Remember?'

'I have learned that when you don't make sarcastic comments, you are... shall we say satisfied? with my performance.'

'Then stop asking,' Geralt told him, running his fingers through Jaskier's hair absently, familiarly, as if they had been doing this forever, as if this casual intimacy was long-established.

Jaskier was delighted at discovering and the prospect of exploring this new side to Geralt. He was so casual about this, just lying there naked on the bed together, unabashed in the light of day (it was still only a few hours after noon) as if it was perfectly normal. He had assumed that Geralt, so frustratingly reticent and tense so much of the time, would want to get dressed immediately and get on with whatever task needed doing, disregarding sex as something merely mechanical, soon over and sooner forgotten. Jaskier was overjoyed to find that Geralt was so relaxed and clearly content to keep lying in bed in the afterglow, even chatting. It was actually endearing. The clear light of day illuminated the room and the curtains of the bed had been drawn back; Jaskier was glad that they had done this in daylight, where he could see so much, and remember it. Because even though Geralt had said 'every time we fuck' (and oh, how dirty and delicious he made it sound, the careless obscenity falling from his lips in a filthy promise), Jaskier knew that Geralt would soon be gone, and he had to have every detail of every memory. But at least there would most certainly be a next time, if Geralt said so.

They lay still for a while, Geralt sifting Jaskier's hair gently through his fingers, and Jaskier tracing meaningless patterns along Geralt's side and arm, which he could conveniently reach, just to memorise the texture of the skin.

Then Geralt said, 'Want to do it again?'

Jaskier looked up. 'I hate to tell you this, Geralt, but interested as I am, I think I might be a bit worn out for today. Being fucked like that once was quite enough for one day.'

Geralt smiled. 'We don't have to do it the same way. We could do it the other way about.'

Jaskier frowned, it took him a few seconds to understand what Geralt was driving at. He sat up and stared as Geralt, who was just lying there, looking perfectly calm about all this. 'You mean you want me to - ' He broke off and paused.

'What?' Geralt asked, mockingly. 'Have you finally run out of words?'

'Yeah, you've rendered me bloody speechless, Geralt. Just to be clear about this, so there's no confusion, you want me to fuck you?'

'Why not?'

Jaskier had not seriously, in any of his many fantasies about Geralt, imagined this. Alright, so he might have imagined it in the deepest, dirtiest, most outrageously improbable fantasy. But it had been easy to imagine himself a small, powerless thing in Geralt's skilled hands, and not so easy, especially when confronted by the reality, to even imagine being the one to take Geralt. Geralt surveyed his hesitation with amusement.

'You do know what to do, don't you?'

'Yes, of course I bloody well know what to do, Geralt. Besides, you've just given me a very impressive demonstration. I just... don't know what you like.'

Geralt shrugged. 'Do what pleases you.' 

If _that_ wasn't the most erotic thing Jaskier had heard in his life, he didn't know what was. Geralt lying there, telling him to do whatever pleased him with Geralt, _to_ Geralt... well, it truly was too much for words. But underneath the lust flooding him, he was still nervous. Geralt had seemed to sense instinctively exactly what Jaskier wanted the first time. Perhaps he had read some cues in Jaskier's words or voice or behaviour, and had been just as imperious and domineering and aggressive as Jaskier had imagined, no, even more so, fulfilling and exceeding all his dreams. But Jaskier had no idea how to read Geralt on this, as on much else. He hadn't given him _any_ clues, or if he had, Jaskier had clearly misinterpreted them. He would never in a million years have guessed that Geralt would ask him to take him. How was it that Geralt had seemed to see right into Jaskier and know his desires effortlessly, while to Jaskier, Geralt was completely opaque?

Perhaps Geralt was right, and Jaskier should stop overthinking it. He remembered the way Geralt had brushed his lips softly, how kind his hands were, and the solution came to him immediately; Geralt wanted gentleness, sweetness, tenderness. His life, as far as Jaskier knew, was harsh and brutal, physically demanding and exhausting, often full of pain and cruelty. He wanted now to be caressed, to give up that steely control that governed his life, and Jaskier felt his blood wash warm and glowing through his veins at the thought that Geralt trusted him enough to want this with him. He leaned down and kissed Geralt, slowly, thoroughly, devoutly, a foretaste of what he intended. He stroked Geralt's hair, coarse and thick and wild, like a horse's mane, wind-tossed and uncared-for. He nudged Geralt to lie on his side, Geralt obeying his movements with no resistance or questioning, which was deliciously thrilling. Jaskier lay flush against Geralt's back, kissing his neck and shoulders as he moved carefully, by slow, infinitely tender degrees. He put his arm around Geralt, resting a hand on his belly, feeling the muscles there taut and strained, feeling under his lips the tension in his shoulders. Slowly, steadily, that tension melted away, and Jaskier heard Geralt make sighing, almost purring sounds of contented pleasure. Hearing those disarmingly lovely sounds, delight (not unmixed with lust) flooded Jaskier anew, and he gasped and buried his face between Geralt's neck and shoulder, overwhelmed, tasting the saline tang of his skin. Once again, he profoundly regretted being unable to see Geralt's face. He moved his hand lower, stroking Geralt, all with the same deliberate, heavy, languid rhythm. Unlike the fast-paced, almost vicious lovemaking of earlier, this was a gradual ascent, successive waves of lust heaping up, cresting and retreating, their bodies doing the same. Jaskier felt that he was the sea, surging, lapping, falling back with a sigh of satisfaction, only to do it over again and again, while Geralt was the land upon which he broke. Like a storm brewing, they rose in spirals of pleasure towards the final release, their movements becoming unsteady, frenetic. They were both shaking now, so close to the edge. Jaskier tangled the fingers of his free hand in Geralt's hair and pulled, hard. Geralt threw his head back, arching his back in a drawn bow of rapture, gasping, crying out, and Jaskier clung to him, pressing his forehead against his shoulder, falling together through bliss.

'Impressive,' Jaskier commented, when he finally felt in a condition to speak. 'Two simultaneous orgasms, we _do_ make a fantastic team.'

'Do you have to provide detailed commentary every time?' Geralt asked.

'Be fair, I didn't talk for... however long that was.'

Geralt didn't say anything, but hummed contentedly. Clearly, he was in no mood to argue, but not because he was too exasperated (as was usual), but because he was too lazy, too relaxed, too happy. Jaskier had never seen Geralt so happy before. It was the crowning glory of the day.


	10. Chapter 10

Jaskier had not imagined, when the entire vampire situation started, that the slaying of vampires would become a merely secondary (if that) issue to him. But now, the looming prospect of Geralt leaving made the problem of whether or not the vampires would be destroyed seem relatively unimportant. Perhaps because of this, their destruction was accomplished with astounding ease and no complications. He and Geralt worked methodically through the list of vampires they had made, and found delightful ways to entertain themselves in the meantime. They saw a few more plays, went to taverns, and even spent two evenings at the court, though Jaskier noticed that Geralt did not enjoy the atmosphere there. He was slightly ill at ease in taverns also, wanting no part of the usual circle Jaskier spent his time with, since Geralt had little to say to them. Geralt seemed to prefer things such as rowing on the river, walking in the parks, or watching the work on the new stately houses that were being built in the city. Jaskier felt somewhat regretful that Geralt could not share his delight in the entertainments that he preferred, nor could he really share in Geralt's, but their ways of life and temperament did differ significantly. However, they both found plenty to entertain them in bed during the nights. Since day of the problematic destruction of Lord Summerville, they had, by unspoken agreement, fallen into bed together every night.

But now, it was the Day of the Last Vampire. They had just gotten back to the house after dispatching the last of their targets, and dread, which had been gathering for days, now coalesced into a leaden weight in Jaskier's stomach. There was now no reason for Geralt to stay, and Jaskier tried not to allow himself to doubt that he would leave, but hope would keep springing up. 'Yes, but what if he stays?' a voice kept asking in Jaskier's mind, even as he tried to silence it, to tell himself that of course Geralt would go. Jaskier had no doubt of his own feelings; he was in love and would do anything to stay with Geralt, it was just a simple fact of life. But he was sure that Geralt had no feelings for him, except perhaps a tolerant fondness. Jaskier was sure that to Geralt, he was merely the plaything of a moment, and he would forget him as soon as this particular job was over. Jaskier would simply fade out of Geralt's mind, no matter how desperately he wanted him, how fiercely he remembered him and called to him in his heart, Geralt would never hear. It seemed almost impossible that the loss and longing Jaskier already felt could not be sensed by Geralt as waves of pain, but he knew that he did not matter to Geralt. He probably barely existed for Geralt. He was just another human, perhaps a bit good-looking, perhaps a bit clever, but what was he compared to the tumultuous world of grand struggles that Geralt inhabited? He was just an insignificant speck. And yet a tiny, treacherous corner of his soul kept flashing that tiny, wan hope; what if Geralt stayed? 

Jaskier called for hot water as they entered the house, since they had returned in their usual filthy, blood-smeared state. This had become something of a routine; coming back from destroying a vampire, they had water brought up to them in Jaskier's room, threw off their dirty clothes and helped one another wash. There was no way they could get a proper bath every time, the water took too long to fetch and heat, so they had to make do as best they could, which usually led on to other things that required more washing afterwards. Slightly counterproductive, but Jaskier was not complaining. On this, the last day, Jaskier was acutely conscious of the fact that they were probably doing this for the last time. He soaked a cloth in the large basin of hot water and began washing the worst of the blood off himself.

'Well,' he said, attempting to sound casual, 'last vampire, right? What are your post-vampire plans, Geralt? I don't mean now, I think I know what those are, and mine are the same, I mean, now that the vampires are destroyed, what are you planning to do?'

'Same thing I always do,' Geralt said, concentrating on rubbing something filthy and horrible off his arm, 'see what creatures need dealing with.'

'You know, there are probably quite a few monsters in England. You could, maybe, stay?' Jaskier had intended to be casual, he hadn't meant this last to sound like an appeal, but it certainly, pathetically, did. So he carried on, trying to cover up the moment. 'Or maybe you could take a holiday. For a bit. I know killing monsters is important, but everyone needs a rest. And you can't keep on doing this forever. Are you ever going to retire?'

'Yeah, when I slow and get killed,' Geralt said, looking over at Jaskier.

'Come on, you must want something for yourself when all this...' Jaskier gestured vaguely at Geralt in general (very naked and very distracting), 'monster-hunting nonsense is over with.'

'I want nothing.' Geralt sounded blunt, like shutters had just fallen behind his words.

'Well, who knows, maybe someone out there will want you,' Jaskier said, half-teasing, and moving closer to Geralt.

'I need no one, and the last thing I want is someone needing me.'

'And yet, here we are,' Jaskier said, and paused, heart beating, waiting for a reaction. He had as good as told Geralt that he wanted him, needed him. 

'Hmm,' was all Geralt returned, supremely ambiguous. 

Jaskier wanted to scream at him to fuck off with his confusing 'hm's and just _say what he meant_ damn it, but he restrained himself. This was likely to be the last time they were going to do this, and he didn't want to ruin it by needling Geralt. He wanted to remember the last time as a good one. So he went over to Geralt and started washing the dirt off the back of his shoulders, glowing with the knowledge that the attention was welcome. It now felt so gloriously familiar, and he knew Geralt's body so well, he knew that when he pressed firmly with his thumb just behind the shoulder blade, kneading at the muscle there, Geralt would give _that_ contented moan, as he did now.

'Stop distracting me,' Geralt said, 'and come here.'

Obligingly, Jaskier moved back around and let Geralt wash his back in turn. He shut his eyes. Geralt's hands were so gentle, so caring, such kind hands. Jaskier was torn between lust and regret for the touch that was not yet gone. There was a poem in there somewhere. He would have to treasure this moment, remember, remember, when there was nothing but memories left. He opened his eyes again. It was broad daylight, and they were both unclothed and wet, and no longer dirty. Jaskier didn't think he had ever made love so often with anyone in the daylight before. He slid his hand around Geralt's neck, under his hair.

'Can I distract you now?'

* * *

Geralt knew that happiness was brief, especially when set against the long span of his life. A few years, a few months, gone so quickly. But this, with Jaskier, was different. Nothing had ever been so brief (such a tiny sliver of time in which to know one another, days, mere fleeting breaths), nothing had ever been so fierce. He was keenly aware of just how fast they were hurtling towards the end of their time together, and dread turned his blood cold at the thought. He did not want to see the world without Jaskier in it; it would be so much duller, so much less lively and vivid. Geralt shrank from the long, monotonous vista of years that his life would unwind along, grey and half-dead, without Jaskier. Geralt saw him as a visitor from a different world, not an angel, as in some moral tale, but as a bright bird flying in by accident from some country of which he had not even dreamed, and which would soon go back to its foreign climes. Jaskier was so bright and sparkling, full of life and laughter, all the things that Geralt lacked. And in this brief moment of time they were together, the dark and the light, the black and the bright, intertwined.

Geralt thought he knew just what was going on with Jaskier. He had seen it before in other humans. Geralt was a form of perversion; some humans got a sensual thrill from Geralt's physical strangeness, a madness of lust that another human could not satisfy. Geralt was well aware that physically, he was able to arouse strange desires in people; the colour of his eyes and hair, the strength of his body. He gathered, over time, that he smelled and tasted unlike humans, perhaps the infusion of faerie blood in his veins acted on some like an aphrodisiac. In dark moments, Geralt even thought this was unnatural and disgusting, something like bestiality, wanting to couple with an unholy creature rather than a fellow human. Jaskier, Geralt assumed, was just one of the humans who happened to be susceptible to his physical presence, which was why he was so eager to have sex with him. Sometimes Geralt felt that he was taking an unfair advantage; he, Geralt, was really in love, while Jaskier was just enchanted, carried away by lust. Geralt was haunted by guilt at exploiting Jaskier's physical attraction to him to indulge in a simulacrum of a love he could never have, deceive himself for a few hours that the throes of passion in which they were both writhed meant something more to Jaskier than mere sensation, as they did to Geralt. Every touch, every kiss burned through him. He couldn't stand it, he must leave, not prolong this torture, not prolong the lies. Jaskier would forget him soon, he would become just an exciting episode in Jaskier's past, a wild love affair, a marvellous story to tell. 

'Maybe someone out there will want you,' Jaskier teased, and Geralt wanted to snarl at him to stop taunting him, stop pretending to offer what he would never actually give. _Of course_ Jaskier wanted him, Geralt knew that, but it was mere lust. He wanted Geralt to stay for a little while longer, to play, to indulge one another. Well, there would be no harm in that if Geralt wasn't in love. But he couldn't blame Jaskier for that, and he felt himself softening towards Jaskier, simply because he was Jaskier, and Geralt couldn't stay irritated with him. And when Jaskier put his hand on that place behind his shoulder blade that he had found, that made Geralt melt, Geralt cursed mentally. He had allowed Jaskier to learn his body too well, to get too deeply under his skin. How had this happened? How had he let the situation get away from him so badly?

* * *

Jaskier was writing a letter to a cousin in Lincolnshire. He was finding very little to say; he could not write about what was really making him miserable (Geralt's immanent departure), or about the vampire-related adventures, and he had had almost no part in court gossip or intrigues in the last two months. He tried to write about his travels on 'affairs of business' in Europe, about getting robbed on the road and making his way through the Holy Roman Empire as a travelling minstrel, but his heart wasn't in it. All he wanted to write about was Geralt, and Geralt wasn't really a topic he could introduce or explain to his very prosaic cousin.

Jaskier sighed, looked moodily out of the window, and wondered how it was that never in his life had he felt so disturbed and miserable as he did now, when all external things seemed so successful. The vampires had been eliminated, the court was once more safe, he could return to his normal life. Doctor Dee had even produced a rather substantial reward for Geralt's services; a thousand pounds and an small casket full of jewels. The entire adventure could only be termed an unqualified success, yet it might as well have been an utter failure ten times over, judging by how Jaskier felt. What did he really care if the entire court were transformed into vampires, feeding on a terrified population? What did he really care if a vampire drained him of blood as well? Geralt was leaving, Geralt, who didn't care about him in the least, or only as a plaything, which might be worse. Jaskier groaned, buried his face in his hands for what felt like the hundredth time that day, and miserably contemplated the fact that Geralt was leaving the next morning.

Morosely, he turned back to the letter. He remembered that he had promised his cousin to copy out a poem by Edward de Vere for him, and began searching for the book which contained it. He couldn't find it on his desk, or on the shelves. He then recalled that he had given the book to Geralt when they had arrived, not that he had seriously expected Geralt to sit around reading poetry, but he had felt it was discourteous of him (as a poet) to leave a guest without reading matter. And after all, Geralt might sleep badly and want distraction. This was before Jaskier became the distraction. But the book must still be in Geralt's room. Geralt was out somewhere, and Jaskier decided he would just go get the book from his room.

He had given Geralt the nicest room in the house that could be quickly opened up, and it looked neat and pleasant as ever when Jaskier entered it. Sure enough, there, on the table were several books. Jaskier paused, suddenly realising that there were more books than he remembered giving Geralt. Intrigued, he picked up the topmost book, which was not a book all, he saw, but a quarto volume of... his own sonnets. He stared, turning the slim quarto over blankly in his hands, as if it would yield further information. He looked down at the next book. It was _Phoebe, Queen of the Summer Skies_. Jaskier stood still, unable to think what to make of this. Why did Geralt have his poetry? He must have bought it, but why?

It was several minutes before he allowed the unformed spark of hope in his heart to coalesce into a coherent thought that shot through his veins like fire; perhaps Geralt had troubled to seek out and read his poetry because he cared for him, cared for him as something other than a warm, willing and playful body in his bed. Of course, he knew that Geralt didn't return his feelings, that was impossible, but perhaps, just perhaps, he was less indifferent than Jaskier had thought. Without being aware of it, Jaskier started pacing up and down the room, the quarto still in his hand, biting his lip and wondering what to do. He had to do something in response to this development, but what? He couldn't just let Geralt go without talking about this. But what was he to say?

He did not have the time to make a decision or think much more about it, however. Downstairs, he heard the door opening and the unmistakable sound of Geralt's footfalls in the hall. On impulse, Jaskier picked up the two books and went out to speak to Geralt. He had no idea what he was going to say, but he burned with the need to speak about this.

'Geralt!' he called from the stair. Geralt looked up at him and jerked his head in acknowledgement. Jaskier took a deep breath. 'I've been waiting for you. Can you come up, come up here to my room, I mean?'

Geralt gave no sign that he had heard, but he came up the staircase and they both went into Jaskier's room. Jaskier was no longer even thinking about what he was going to say. Making decisions and considering actions was simply not possible. He would just have to trust to whatever came out of his mouth (well aware of what a terrible plan this was).

He turned, facing Geralt, and put the books down on a table between them. Geralt glanced down and flinched. He kept his eyes lowered, but other than that, stood still, perhaps a bit tense, as though readying for a fight.

'Why do you have these?' Jaskier asked, his voice very small and slightly choked.

'Didn't know it was a crime to own books,' Geralt said, sounding very off-hand and infuriatingly unperturbed.

All Jaskier was aware of was a terrible desperation to speak, to confess. What did it matter, anyways? Geralt was leaving tomorrow, and nothing in the world was worse than this. Whatever he said, he couldn't possibly make the situation worse. It was as bad as it could get already. So he just forged ahead, saying the first thing that came into his head, the only thing that was in his head.

'I love you.' Then, immediately, struck by the monumental and slightly absurd declaration, he rambled on. 'I know you don't love me, I thought you didn't even care about me, but seeing those books, I thought that maybe you weren't as indifferent as I thought. I can't bear your leaving tomorrow. Please just... just don't leave me. Fuck, I sound pathetic, but... I suppose I just wanted you to know. I love you. Yeah, that's about it.'

Geralt just _looked_ at him, completely expressionless. The silence seemed to stretch into eternity. Jaskier felt as though every passing second was slicing deeper and deeper into his heart. He supposed that if the silence went on for a little longer, it would literally kill him.

'Jaskier, you don't know what you're saying,' Geralt finally said, and his voice sounded hoarse, a little broken, so low and yet vibrant.

'I do though, I'm pretty sure I'm fully aware of what I'm saying.'

'No, you can't love me, you're either being cruel or you're being idiotic.'

'Why? Why do you think I can't love you?'

Geralt looked away with a wince. He turned his head aside, almost as if from a blow. 'Because,' he said, so quietly Jaskier could barely hear it over the roaring of his blood flooding in panicked tides through him, 'I'm not even human.'

'What's so great about humans?' Jaskier asked, with a wild little laugh. 'Please, Geralt, I deserve the right to love you if I so choose. Don't try to take that away from me. Tell me to fuck off if you want to, but don't think you're going to change my mind. Or my heart.'

Geralt looked back at him, and something in his eyes made Jaskier feel almost embarrassed to see him like that. His expression did not change, but his eyes looked hurt and incredulous all at once and also... frightened. He had never seen Geralt look frightened before. Not of dragons or vampires or immanent death.

'Wait,' Jaskier said, thinking back slowly along the thread of their conversation, 'you just said you thought I was being cruel. Why would it be cruel to say that I love you?'

'Why do you think?' Geralt's voice was back to its usual irate growl, defensive and threatening, but Jaskier wasn't alarmed. He couldn't be scared of Geralt, ever.

'I don't know, Geralt, you'll have to tell me.'

'Because I love you, and it's the most annoying thing that's ever happened to me!'

Jaskier stared at him. His mind actually, for once in his life, went completely blank. He had no idea what to say, and seemed to have lost his capacity for speech anyway.

'Are you just going to stand there gaping at me like a fish?' Gerald demanded, abrupt and harsh.

'Like a fish?' Jaskier repeated. 'Is that any way to talk to the person you love?'

'Fuck off, Jaskier, it's not funny.'

'Yeah, I agree, it's not bloody funny, we both just said that we love each other, and instead of falling on my bed and making passionate love, we're standing here bickering!'

Geralt regarded Jaskier with a slight, questioning tilt of the head. Then he gave a little shrug, as if acknowledging that Jaskier had a point, and strode right up to him with that fluid step that Jaskier so much admired, simply picked him up, and deposited him on the bed. Then Geralt crawled up the bed towards him, pushing his thigh between Jaskier's, and capturing his mouth in an assured kiss. They struggled out of their clothes and this time, they looked into one another's eyes as they made love, flooded by the dazzling light of truth. Geralt reached over and took Jaskier's hand in his, tangling their fingers together in the final moments, both of them pressing their hands together feverishly at the last in a fervent, pleasure-racked grip.

'So, still going to leave tomorrow?' Jaskier asked, when he had sufficient breath.

Geralt was silent for a moment. 'Jaskier, I've seen what happens when humans and immortal creatures fall in love. It ends in heartbreak, madness even.'

'I don't care how it ends. Why should endings concern us now?'

'You have a life here, in the city, at court, that I can never share. I'm not meant for that kind of thing. Any more than you are meant for travelling on long journeys, hunting monsters, away from your civilised houses and palaces.'

Jaskier kissed Geralt as hard and as long as he could. 'Would you please just shut up?' he murmured. 'We'll figure it out. We don't have to share our whole lives, or give them up for one another. We'll find a way to be together despite all that. It will all come alright in the end. It will be well, I promise.'

Once again, Geralt found himself believing Jaskier's promise. Their hands were still twined together, they had either forgotten or refused to let go. 

Jaskier moved over to curl up against Geralt's chest. 'All will be well, Geralt,' he said again.

'I suppose,' Geralt said after a while, 'I'll have to unpack again.'

'Absolutely,' Jaskier agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a 10-years-later epilogue in which Jaskier and Geralt are still together and happy and sometimes living apart and sometimes travelling together. But then ao3 helpfully ate it, and I don't feel like rewriting it. So just know that they're happy together and still going to see Shakespeare plays.


End file.
